


Hero by Choice

by ScriptrixDraconum



Series: Hero [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, Afterlife, Alternate Canon, Angst, Constructed Language, Dawnbreaker, Dimension Travel, Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Dragonborn DLC, Dragons, Drama, Fantasy, Ghosts, High Hrothgar, Language Barrier, Mages, Magic, Modern Girl in Skyrim, Modern Insert, Modern OC, Multi, Necromancers, Portals, Realistic, Undead, Vampires, Zombies, conlang, modern to medieval
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 50
Words: 259,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScriptrixDraconum/pseuds/ScriptrixDraconum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>HERO SERIES, PART 2</b>. Child of Akatosh. Champion of Meridia. I am Dragonborn, and I am not here by mistake. The gods have a plan for me – to fight the undead, and to save Skyrim from destruction. My name is Deborah, and I am a hero by choice.</p><p>Extended Description: Deborah must travel to High Hrothgar to learn about her newfound destiny. She must also find a balance between being Dragonborn, the Champion of Meridia, and a friend, lover, and mother. This is not your typical Skyrim/Dragonborn story. Skyrim quests and plots are altered completely, new ones are added (though I would hardly call them "quests" as opposed to necessary actions), no in-game dialogue or plotlines will be played out, and the Dragonborn, Deborah, is not even from Nirn.</p><p>TL;DR: The following story is what happens when a modern-day non-combat-ready woman gets ripped into another reality where coffee and toilet paper do not exist but dragons and zombies do and she is driven by the gods to be a hero.</p><p>Disclaimer: All Skyrim in-game characters, themes, questline plots etc. are property of Bethesda Softworks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back, lovely readers! Here begins the sequel to "Hero by Mistake". We're getting right back into it. If you're opening this chapter and wondering what this story is about, I strongly recommend reading Book One first.
> 
> For those of you who have been diligent but silent readers, I'd love to hear from you. Post a comment to let me know what you thought of Book One. As always, I appreciate constructive criticism!
> 
> Keep tabs on updates via following this story or following me on tumblr: [scrptrx](http://scrptrx.tumblr.com).
> 
>  
> 
>   
>  Sketch by [Chenria](http://chenria.tumblr.com). 

_One decade ago…_

"An ouroboros! Very cool. I haven't done one of these in years." My tattooist, Andy, took the printed copy of the design I'd chosen months ago to copy it onto transfer paper. "Do you really want it that big?" He held up the design to the light.

"Yep," I answered, "right between the neck and lower back ones. Need it big enough to put a design inside the circle, eventually."

"What design?"

"Two intertwined snakes, a motif from Çatalhöyük."

"From where?"

I chuckled. "A settlement from about nine thousand years ago in Turkey. Really cool civilization. Perhaps the only sedentary egalitarian civilization that ever existed."

Andy furrowed his brow, perhaps trying to decipher my nerdspeak. "Remind me… 'egalitarian' means equal, right?"

"Basically. Equal access to resources. Everyone gets a piece of the bison sort of deal. Everyone helps out."

"And they liked snakes there?"

"They liked aurochs – ancient wild cattle – worshipped them, probably. Some think they were something of a 'goddess culture'. Anyway… they used animals in most of their designs, yeah."

"So what's with all the snakes? You already have this spiral which could be a snake you said, and now this ouroboros and later the other design. You have a thing for snakes?"

"Hmm? Oh, I don't know." Andy was now prepping my back, his canvas, and I was prepping my nerves. "I've always loved snakes."

"Ever had one as a pet?"

"No. I don't like the idea of keeping an animal like that in a little tank. Plus I don't like that whole feeding process…." I squirmed at the memory of feeding frozen pinky mice to the wildlife refuge mascot, a ball python named Balthazar that had been abandoned by his previous owner. I adored that snake, but hated preparing his food.

"Snake symbolism is really interesting," Andy said. His musings always made good conversation, and also served as a pleasant distraction. "Healing, immortality, underworld…. I suppose the ouroboros could be a symbol of immortality as well as the cycle of life and death."

"See, that's why I like you, Andy. You know symbolisms."

"My art degree didn't go completely to waste." He chuckled. "Alright, fellow nerd, brace yourself…."

I closed my eyes and forced myself not to flinch when the tattoo needle touched down on my mid-back.

 

 

. . . . . .

_One year ago…_

Once I was left to my own devices at the college in Winterhold, I took it upon myself to read as much as possible. I took extensive notes from the multitude of instructional books and spell tomes, but also read other, non-magic-related books that the library housed.

On a particularly bad morning after once again dreaming of Helgen, I approached Urag gro-Shub to see if he had any books about dragons. He had exactly one. The book was locked away in what I assumed was the "special collections" area, and was kept in a wooden box.

"It's old," Urag said. "I have never seen another copy. If you damage it, I advise you to walk away and keep walking straight on out of Skyrim." The old orc next handed me a pair of thin cloth gloves. "Wear these at all times while handling the book. Sit  _right here_  where I can see you." He pulled out a chair for me at a table near his desk. "You can copy whatever you like from the book. Keep your quill and ink  _away_  from it, though, alright?"

I nodded.

"Alright. Have fun." Urag shot me a terse look and returned to his desk.

The brown leather cover of the book had already begun to dry and flake apart, but the embossing and imprinted designs were still visible. The borders of the cover boasted a kind of Celtic – or I supposed Nordic – knot in each corner, and the center of the cover had a curious design I couldn't decipher. At first glance the imprint, surrounded by an embossed square, looked like a decorative fountain, the sort one might see in the center of a town. There was a flat base, and above it several curved lines that resembled splashed water, with three florets in between the symmetrical design. However, on closer inspection the design on top of the base looked more like swirls of air, and what I thought were florets were actually birds. One of the birds shot straight up from the center of the base, and the other two flanked the central bird's jet-stream.

" _Wait a minute_ ," I mumbled to myself in English. I had seen this design before. I peered to my right at a shelf full of books, stood, and half-pulled a brown book out to examine the cover. I rolled my eyes when I saw the same exact design on the first book I looked at. I sat back down and scolded myself for over-analyzing; the books were simply made in a similar style, perhaps by the same book-maker.

 _Thath era dovahn._ "'There… Be… Dragons'?"  _Seriously?_  The title of the book was the Norren version of the English phrase I knew well. I chuckled at the odd coincidence, but moved on.

_A report on the nature of dragons._

_The last known sighting of a dragon in Tamriel was in the time of Tiber Septim. He made a pact with the few remaining dragons, swearing to protect them if they would serve him. Despite his promise, dragons were still hunted and slain._

" _Well that's rude,_ " I whispered to myself in English.

 _It's not clear if the last ones fled Tamriel or if they were_ kulatrintur _. There is no credible story of how dragons came to be._

"'They just were, and are'." I didn't recognize many words in the book, but "unchanging" and "not born" stood out to me.

Unaza, nindalafa,  _unchanging, and_ singava.  _They are not born or_ klukt.  _They do not mate or_ fjelkar.  _There are no known examples of dragon eggs or young dragons._

I continued to read the passage.

 _Although they are not born, dragons can die. During the Dragon War of the_ Merethic _Era, their numbers were weakened. The_ Akaviri aadaken _of the late First Era are said to have hunted and killed many of them, before and after their defeat by Emperor Reman. Some sources say the_ Akaviri _brought over dragon-killing spells._

 _"Bingo…._ " There were many more words I didn't understand, but I copied down the passage all the same.

Phrases like "hunted and killed" and  _"_ dragon-killing spells" stood out like flashing neon signs.  _Yes, yes please_ , I silently pleaded for explanations.

 _Others claim they built_ snjala _traps. One tale even speaks of a rare poison. It is well accepted that a dragon's most fearsome weapon is its fiery breath._

" _What? That's it!?_ " My English whispering was harsh, as if the book could register my disappointment. The paragraph about killing dragons with traps, spells and poisons had ended without any further discussion. I was furious, but kept on reading and copying down the text into my journal nonetheless.

 _Because they could fly overhead and rain down flaming death, archers and mages were necessary when hunting them. It is less well known that some dragons could breathe a freezing_ uth _of frost. The reports indicate that dragons might do one or the other, but not both._

 _Most people think of dragons as mere beasts. However,_ rokrezaar _they must have had language in order for Tiber Septim to have negotiated with them. Indeed, the historical record is quite clear that dragons were highly intelligent. They had their own language, but could also speak the languages of men and elves._

" _Well, I'll be damned."_  The concept of an intelligent flying giant lizard pretty much scared the crap out of me, but I kept reading.

 _Even without this most_ medaethra _weapon, their nearly_ ugjena  _hide and stone-like teeth and claws made them terrifying opponents._

" _Geezus."_

_No dragon has been seen for centuries. There are a few known examples of dragon bones joined with the stone and rocks of cliffs and caves. Just enough proof to make the stories undeniable._

When I finished copying the contents of the book, I sat back and stared at the artifact. I didn't know what I thought I'd find – answers, maybe. Answers to questions like, how many dragons there were in the world, or what it actually meant when they resurfaced. Stenvar and I had agreed that the reappearance of dragons likely meant that the legendary Dragonborn was due to arise as well. Dragonborn, a dragonslayer with special magic and the ability to produce special shouts that could kill a dragon.

I reread passages from the book I had just copied.  _Dragon-killing spells and rare poisons_. There was no indication whatsoever as to what those spells or poisons were.  _Perhaps_ , I thought,  _these "Akaviri" people will know the answer._

I replaced the old book into its wooden case, removed my cloth gloves, and returned to Urag.

"Thank you for this book, Urag," I said as I placed the wooden box and gloves on his desk.

The orc shrugged. "It's my job. Why do you want to know about dragons, anyway?"

I bit my lip, reluctant to tell my life story to every single person I met. "I heard they have returned," I lied. "I was just curious. Now," I leaned my folded arms on his tall wooden desk, "do you have a book on people called 'Akaviri'? I am curious about their culture."

Urag turned back to me, saw that I was leaning on his desk, and looked like he was about to explode in a verbal tirade. I immediately righted my posture, and the orc calmed. "Akaviri, eh?" Urag raised a hand to his mouth, and with his thumb and forefinger gave his tusks a slow stroke. The motion unnerved me for whatever reason, though I knew I made the same movement, stroking my invisible beard, as it were, whenever I was feigning deep thought. "All we have is the one book," he said as he started off to my left. "A short thing. Perhaps one of the most common books in all of Tamriel, though." We stopped in an area of books labeled "World History". He pulled the slim book from the shelf and slid in a place-card to indicate its position before handing me the book. "Anything else?" he asked me.

"Ehh, maybe…." I bit my lip again. "Do you know if there is anyone that might know spells big enough to kill dragons? Or poisons for dragons?"

"Hurr, you're funny," was all the old orc said before walking back to his desk.

The book he had handed me was called "Mysterious Akavir", and when I skimmed to a line that read "these men were eaten long ago by snake people" I sighed in defeat.

 

 

. . . . . .

_One second ago…_

Something warm splashed into my eyes and mouth, snapping me out of my daze.

Blood. Ulfric's blood. I wanted to wipe it away but I was paralyzed, terrified as I watched the orc remove his warhammer from the mess that used to be Ulfric's head. Lengths of greying, strawberry blond hair and chunks of brain were removed from the ground, adhering to the warhammer's spiky end. I caught a glimpse of an eyeball and gagged. Yrsarald, who had been kneeling beside me, sprung forth with a growling cry, and lunged at the orc. While he was leaping mid-air, the orc shouted something and turned into a ghostly, foggy, translucent figure, and Yrsarald fell flat on his stomach. I heard him wheeze, and knew the wind had been knocked out of him. Guards loosed their arrows at the ethereal orc, but failing to hit their intangible target the arrows instead clinked against the stone ground. The orc ran fast, very fast, disappearing into the depths of the city. At Galmar's command, guards darted past us to find and capture Jarl Ulfric's murderer.

I finally collected my bearings and scrambled over to Yrsarald, helping him out of his own stunned state. When I looked into his reddened face, I saw the rage that was building within him. He was growling, his chest was heaving, and his fists and jaw were clenching and unclenching repeatedly. He was on the verge of shifting into his beast form.

"Yrsa, Yrsa don't," I whispered. "Don't change." My hands cupped his cheeks as I forced him to look at me. A ring of gold had formed around his blue irises, and glowing yellow slivers crept inward, toward the constricted pupil. His inner bear wanted out. "Yrsa, you don't have to change. The guards will get him. They'll find him." My fingers knotted into Yrsarald's long locks as I pleaded with him to calm down. The yellow in his eyes grew brighter, and I began to fear for my life, and for the lives of anyone else nearby.

The city had gone silent, still, as if waiting for the world to explode. I heard nothing but the pounding of my own heart and Yrsarald's quiet growling.

But screams broke the silence. They came from my right, from the blacksmith's house; they came just in time to stop Yrsarald from shifting. His eyes returned to their normal blue color and he turned to look for the source of the piercing sound. I followed his gaze. A woman, Hermir, the blacksmith's assistant, had burst through the door to Oengul the blacksmith's house and around the forge to where Ulfric lay in a pool of his own blood and brains.

" _NO!_ No, no… no no no…." The young, strong woman knelt by Ulfric's torso, a trembling hand hovering over his bloodied mess of hair. "Ulfric…," she cried, her voice cracking as she spoke the dead man's name.

"Hermir?" Oengul called after her, stepping out of his house. He, along with the rest of us, soon realized what was happening. I craned my neck to gaze up at Galmar, and the look on his face confirmed it. Hermir had been Ulfric's lover. Perhaps one of many, though I had still never seen him with any woman at the palace. The woman dared caress the fractured, flattened skull of the man she obviously cared for.

I then became acutely aware of my numbing appendages, and wrapped my arms around Yrsarald, my portable radiator. I grasped Yrsarald's hand and squeezed, hard. He squeezed back. We said nothing to one another; no one at the scene uttered a single word. We simply looked on in stunned silence as Hermir openly mourned the fallen Jarl.

Despite Yrsarald's warmth, I began to shiver, and stood from the cold stone ground. I turned to gaze once more at the sizable dragon skeleton that lay in moderate anatomical position in the market square. I noticed several scales, roughly the size of my face, had fallen off of the creature before its soft tissue apparently vaporized.

I didn't notice Yrsarald standing, and jumped when he wrapped his arms around me. "You're shivering," he said quietly. "Go on back to the palace," he spoke softly into my ear. "I'll be there soon."

I nodded, silently scolding myself for not grabbing my cloak and gloves before leaving Calixto's house. Arms wrapped tightly around my robed body, I walked briskly back to the palace, back to Bird and Flavia, assuming and hoping they weren't among the five dead Yrsarald had reported.

I could feel eyes upon me as I passed through the crowd of guards and citizens, but I ignored their gazes.  _Don't look at me,_ I silently begged of them.  _Nothing to see. Nothing._ I hurried my pace, eager for the quiet solitude and warmth of the palace.

I found Bird and Flavia in their bedroom, playing. Bird's wide grin quickly shrank when I walked through his open doorway. "Blood…," he said, noticing the bits of Ulfric that still decorated me. "Are you alright?" he asked, laying Flavia in her bassinet and walking over to me. "What's this…," he examined a tress, "what's this in your hair?"


	2. Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so, sorry for the depressing chapter. I can't very well write an uplifting, heart-warming chapter when Deb and everyone around her is a complete emotional wreck. Hopefully there are enough "What? Woah" moments in here to counter-balance the "omgpain" moments.

The bath was soothing. Scrubbing gore off of my skin and out of my hair was liberating. Once I was clean, however, I had to face reality. All realities.

Ulfric Stormcloak was dead. An orc Dragonborn had killed him. There was a Dragonborn. I, too, was Dragonborn, maybe. I kept seeing the visions replay in my mind. Me, flying through the sky, being injured by magic, my bare dragon bones in a heap in the market square.

For a brief moment, I  _was_ that dragon. Viinturuth, he was called. He was not an ancient dragon, not as ancient as others, anyway, but he was old. He hated humans, elves… anything not dragon. He served a black dragon named Alduin – the same black dragon that had attacked Helgen, I realized. Viinturuth wanted to hear the crunch of our bones against his teeth. I shuddered at the thought.

My mind wouldn't stop running a mental marathon. Foreign words, the dragon's words, learned from its memories that I had experienced all played through my mind. They came in sets. Images of the words and phrases flashed in my mind's eye. They were written strangely, in letters unlike the English or Norren alphabet. Oddly, they looked like cuneiform. I understood the words' meanings as I saw and heard them spoken in a dragon's voice in my head.

_Ro. Yol. Nir. Fus. Shul. Laas. Dah. Toor. Yah._

I knew. I understood. I learned from the dragon whose soul had merged with mine, or perhaps was "eaten" by mine. The dragon's thoughts were no longer something I was privy too, however, and I figured that whatever energy he carried with him was now gone, or perhaps had been dominated by my own soul, or something like that.

 _Yol Toor Shul_  was a phrase Viinturuth had spoken. Slashes, dots, triangles and lines made up the letters. The phrase meant Fire Inferno Sun. I understood that uttering these words not only caused the air to combust, it brought forth the very essence of dragons, dragonfire – the very thing that brought dragons into existence. Dragonfire could destroy dragons as well as any other enemy. I knew this. I  _felt_  it.

 _Laas Yah Nir_ was being whispered in my mind as a near-constant undertone to the other phrases. Life Seek Hunt. Diagonal, vertical, and horizontal lines faded in and out of my mind's eye. Unable to ignore the phrase any longer, I said it aloud. The words when spoken acted similar to the life detection spell Marcurio had taught me. All beings glowed red; I saw them through walls, and even the floor. In my dragon-memory I had hunted from the sky, searching for living beings from afar; nothing hid from my sight, not even mice burrowing in the earth. After I uttered these three words, the whispers went away.

 _Fus Ro Dah._ Mostly vertical lines. It had been shouted by Ulfric repeatedly in the dragon's memory, and Viinturuth had spoken the words as well. Force Balance Push. The words caused the earth to shake, and caused bodies to tremble. I wondered if I could make bodies tremble.

I closed my eyes, willing the torrent of thoughts out of my mind. The whispers came back, adding again to the noise. My brain hurt. My eyes hurt. My hair hurt. If I had to describe the way my mind felt at that moment, I would have compared it to being in the front row of a heavy metal concert: strobe lights flashing, subwoofers vibrating, dissonant chords wailing, crowd moshing. My thoughts were too bright, too loud, too frequent and insistent, and they wouldn't stop. After a while it became a constant, steady din, a scrambled mix of light and sound. My brain was electronic static on an old television set and I couldn't turn it off.

I wished myself into another reality – a reality with no dragons, no Dragonborns, no gods, and no Daedra. For the first time in a long time, I thoroughly wished to be back in my own world where magic and the supernatural were just myths. Toilet paper, chocolate, coffee; my family, my friends, and my dog Sam. But all of this meant no Yrsarald, no Stenvar, no Marcurio, Bird, Flavia, Brelyna, or Wuunferth….

I shuddered, and wrapped my arms around my body. "Ow," I muttered. My breasts had become swollen with milk. I sighed, and left my mildly comforting bath to make a visit with Flavia.

 

. . . . . .

"I just… I can't believe he's dead," Bird said as I nursed Flavia. "He wasn't the best person in the world, but… the  _way_ he was killed…."

"It was awful, Bird. Horrible. Right in front of Yrsarald and me. Just… right there. Right there…."

"How is Yrsarald doing?"

My frown lines deepened; I could feel them. "I don't know. I have not seen him since…." Flavia was finished nursing and I held her up against my chest, gently patting her back. "He nearly… lost himself when it happened. He tried to attack the orc, but he… he… I don't even know the words. The orc shouted, and became a ghost. Like a ghost. Nothing hit him. Arrows went through him. And Yrsarald… Yrsa, he… he just fell. Fell on the ground. He tried… he tried…." I hugged Flavia tightly against my shoulder. "I asked a guard before I came here, just now. They never found the orc. He vanished. Like a ghost…."

"And this orc, he's supposed to be Dragonborn?"

"That is what the guards said. They saw him, heard him shout words and kill a dragon south of the city. That is why he was angry with me, Bird. I am… I…," I started to cry. "I am like him. I felt the dragon… its… soul or… I don't know… I felt so much pain, and then there was… just bones. The dragon went into me, just like what the guards said about the orc and the first dragon. I am  _this_ … now… too…. Dragonborn…. Why? Why…." My voice weakened to a whisper. The static noise in my mind was still there. "I don't want this."

Bird walked over to me and picked up his daughter. He said nothing for a moment, but, after kissing Flavia's forehead, what he eventually did say hit me hard. "The gods do."

 

. . . . . .

I wanted to hide. I wanted to pretend none of the events of that day happened. I wanted to cuddle up with Yrsarald and cry, but he was busy with Galmar and Jorleif, no doubt wondering what to do now – if their cause was dead and the civil war was over, or if they could carry on without Ulfric Stormcloak.

So, instead, I sat with Wuunferth in his quarters as he examined the cut rock that I had pocketed from Calixto's house. Before the dragon attack, I had picked up the rock and had visions, confusing visions I couldn't make sense of. Turning the rock over and over in my hands before handing it to Wuunferth, I saw nothing.

"And you saw soldiers? Stormcloaks and Imperials?" Wuunferth asked me as he examined the cut rock. He hovered his left hand over the object, trying to sense whatever magical energies it harbored.

"Yes, in some kind of… temple, I think. There was snow outside, and a statue on top of everything. A woman, I think, with very big wings. I saw everything as… as the people there, through their eyes, just like the dragon vision…. Something called the soldiers inside the temple, and when they saw their enemy, they fought. I felt very… frightened during the visions, almost sick, like… like something evil was there."

Wuunferth gazed at me, his thumb smoothing over the various facets of the cut rock. "A winged statue… on top of a temple?" he asked.

"Yes…," I eyed him, wondering if he knew what I was talking about.

Wuunferth placed the cut rock on a table, stood, and walked over to a bookshelf. He skimmed the titles until he found what he was looking for, a red leather-bound book with gold leaf designs on the cover. He turned the pages, stopped, and then handed the book to me. "This statue?"

I took the book from Wuunferth and looked at the pages; both had sketches. The sketch on the left page was of a woman dressed in a skimpy robe, hands held out in front of her, grasping something round. The page on the right also had a sketch of a woman, again in a robe, but she had massive wings that were bigger than her body. The angelic woman's arms were raised above her head, and her hands were spaced somewhat apart from one another. In between her hands was something round with what were possibly rays of light radiating from it.

"This one," I said, pointing at the sketch on the right page. "I saw this. Who is it?"

Wuunferth advanced the page for me. The next page held some text; not much, but written clearly in large letters at the top of the page was one word:  _MERIDIA_. I froze temporarily. A sketch of a sword bordered the left side of the text, and my fingers traced the inked design.

"Meridia," I said under my breath.

"Indeed," Wuunferth said, sitting back down.

I continued reading the passage about the Daedra, goddess, or whatever she truly was.

_MERIDIA_

" _A single candle can banish the darkness of the entire_ Ginnil _."_  


"What is 'ginnil'?" I asked Wuunferth.

"It is the emptiness from which life began."

"Oh…." I continued reading.

 _The Lady of_ Vosa  _Energies and Light, Once of the_  Magna Ge,  _Ruler of the Colored Rooms, Leader of the Dawn-bringers. Meridia hates all that_ vogat _life and the living. Her_ bjothig _day is the thirteenth of Morning Star._

I looked to Wuunferth for some clarification. "What is 'vosa'… 'Magna Ge'… 'vogat'… and 'bjothig'?"

"Hmm," he pondered a moment. "'Vosa' means, basically, unending. 'Magna Ge' are the children of Magnus. That's what the words mean, in the old language. Sometimes called Star  _Othen_. They are the stars themselves – holes in the sky, letting in the light of Aetherius."

I stared at old mage. "Stars are not holes in the sky, Wuunferth."

The old mage stared at me. "Yes, they are, Deborah. Or, at least that is how they were first created."

"Then why is the sun so much bigger than the other stars?" I crossed my arms over my chest; I knew what I was talking about, here.

"The sun is not a star," was his answer.

"Yes, it is. They are made of the same things. This planet… what is it… Nirn? It is merely closer to THIS star, your sun, than any others."

"I agree – the sun is  _similar_  to the stars, but it is not a mere star. The sun is the hole in the sky left by Magnus after he created the world."

My face contorted as I tried to comprehend how a man as wise as Wuunferth could think such a thing. I held up my hands, not in defeat, but in protest. "No, no, I… no, Wuunferth." I rubbed my forehead to ease away a pending headache. "I can't talk about this now." My sigh was nothing short of weary. "What about the other words?" I looked again at the book page. "'Vogat' and 'bjothig'."

"'Vogar' is to go against something on purpose. 'Bjothar' is to… call something or someone to you."

Defy. Summon. Got it.

I closed the book and stared at nothing in particular. "She sent me visions."

"It appears as such, yes."

"Of her temple. Soldiers, killing and dying in her temple." I turned to Wuunferth. "Why?"

Wuunferth took the book from me and returned it to the bookshelf. "You are her Champion. She let you live your life for a while, and now, she is summoning you to her temple."

"To… what? I cannot fight soldiers."

"I doubt that is the reason. You said you felt something evil while experiencing the visions. My best guess is, as her Champion, Meridia wants you to destroy something evil in her temple."

I shook my head. "I cannot do that alone."

"No one said you had to go alone…."

I frowned, and looked away from my mentor. "Too much is happening, Wuunferth." I rubbed my temples, willing the constant din away. "I cannot leave here, not with Flavia still nursing, not with Ulfric dead and… and Yrsarald…." I covered my face with my hands momentarily and took in a deep breath. "Yrsarald needs me.  _I_ need  _him_. It was too much already with just being Meridia's champion, but now I am… Dragonborn!? What do I do, Wuunferth? I wanted to return to the college, to graduate…." I looked over to the old mage and blinked the tears away. "What do I do now?"

Wuunferth let out a deep, slow sigh. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Wuunferth suggested, "Perhaps you should ask Meridia what you should do."

I stared at my feet and clutched the silver necklace that Wuunferth had given to me earlier that day.

"Magic," Wuunferth said.

"Hmm? What?"

"Magic," he pointed at the necklace around my neck. "You had asked what the necklace did. It is enchanted; it helps restore magical energies."

I looked at Wuunferth blankly for a moment before answering. "Like my mage's robe?"

He nodded. "Like your mage's robe. And this," my mentor handed back to me the cut rock that had somehow given me visions of Meridia's temple, perhaps sent by the Daedra-goddess herself, "this, I believe, is Meridia's Light, a piece of the Lady herself. It is shown in the sketches of her. I have not been to her temple in  _Haafingar,_ but I believe that stone is supposed to be held by her, by the statue." A small smile crept across the old mage's face. "I think the Lady of Light wanted you to find that rock,  _her_  rock. Perhaps it will bring you closer to her; perhaps, you can now communicate with her outside of your dreams."

I half-smiled for a moment, but soon grimaced yet again at the unending whispers in my mind. "And what about the dragon voices? I can barely hear my own thoughts."

"Perhaps they will fade with time. You may have always been Dragonborn, ever since coming here, but you only today took in the soul of a dragon. Rest, and see. If the voices get stronger, perhaps there is a reason." Wuunferth's kind smile faded and he somewhat slumped in his chair. He slowly shook his head. "A true shame, the loss of Ulfric. Some may be rejoicing but… not me. And for you, I imagine he could have given you advice about the dragon voices, and being Dragonborn."

"Because he trained with the… Greybeards, right?"

Wuunferth nodded. "He did, for many years. He himself might have been able to help you, but…." His sentence faded with his ponderings.

After a short while of sitting in silence, I stood and collected Meridia's rock. "I am going to go rest and spend time with Bird and Flavia, I think."

"Good, good…," was all the old mage said.

 

. . . . . .

Yrsarald finally came to bed late into the evening. I had been attempting to write something in my journal, but I barely passed the phrase "Ulfric died today" when the visions and whispers of dragon words returned with force to my mind, demanding my attention. Thankfully, Yrsarald served as a distraction.

"There you are," I called to my partner. He had previously changed out of his bloodied uniform and into heavy winter clothes. "How… how is everyone? How are you?" It was a stupid question, I knew this, but I asked anyway. Yrsarald looked at me without any emotion written on his face; he said nothing. He then removed his clothing methodically, slowly, and then walked over to the washbasin and rinsed the day off of his face. "Yrsa?" I called, softly, watching him. He dried his hands and sank into bed next to me, and stared at his feet. He didn't look particularly sad, though I would have expected that. Rather, he looked shocked, like he had just run over Bambi with his truck. "Yrsa…," I called to him again.

"Hm? Yeah," he finally responded. "Ulfric is… prepared. For the funeral. Galmar may go to the camps tomorrow, after…." He cleared his throat. "Or maybe the next day. I don't know. Jorleif and I… we still have some work to do, but…." His muscles tensed.

"But?"

"But, I'm tired." He exhaled slowly, leaned in to kiss my cheek, and turned on his side to go to sleep.

I wanted to talk to Yrsarald about what happened. I  _needed_  to talk to him. But within moments, he was sound asleep, chuffing away. I stared at his large slumbering form, my jaw open in disbelief, tears welling in my eyes. Maybe it was selfish of me, but I needed him, and he had immediately cut off any possibility of any real conversation. My heart began to hurt as much as my head.

A knock then sounded on our bedroom door. It was Bird; Flavia was hungry. I settled down next to my friend in his bed with the baby at my breast.

Bird had tried to go back to sleep, but failed. "Do you think he's alright?" he whispered, shadows under his eyes highlighting his worry. Bird had done his best to stay positive, but reality had crept up on him.

"Marc is with Stormcloaks. He will be fine."

"But what if he isn't fine?" Bird leaned forward and hugged his knees. His angelic white-blond hair flowed over his shoulders. Flavia gurgled, signaling that she was full. Bird picked up his daughter and held her against his shoulder, his hand cupping her head as if it was a delicate flower. He pressed his tear-streaked cheek against the baby girl's forehead.

I realized then that Bird considered Flavia a part of Marcurio as much as a part of himself or me, her biological parents. I bit my tongue in order to stop crying.

After an awkward silence, I changed the subject, partially for Bird's sake and partially for my own. "Something is wrong with Yrsarald."

"Wrong?"

"I did not seen him all day… since Ulfric died. Since I…." I hugged my body. "I want to talk to him, hold him…. But he just went to sleep. He barely even looked at me."

"He's upset, Deb," Bird said. "His closest friend is dead, and… and  _you_ , well…." He frowned as he looked at me. "You're Dragonborn."

"I'm just me."

"Yes, you're you. You will always be you. But…." Bird stood from the bed, laid Flavia down in her bassinet, and sat again next to me. "Listen. I married Marc knowing exactly who and what I married: a mage who may have to… get into a few rough situations sometimes. I understood that. Now, Marc… he's an apprentice Court Mage, healing soldiers…. If he had ended up Dragonborn, too…." He leaned back against his pillow with a sigh. "Well, even as Court Mage, he'd still be here, sleeping in his own bed at night, but Dragonborn…." He turned to look at me. "He wouldn't be here. He wouldn't be  _mine_."

My heart sank into my stomach. "Not yours? What do you mean?"

"The Dragonborn… belongs to everyone. To Skyrim. To Tamriel. They hunt and kill dragons, fight evil, win wars…. They are legends for a reason."

My frown deepened. "Like Talos…."

"Yes."

I sank back into Marcurio's pillow and snuggled up next to Bird. "Yrsarald wanted the white fence."

"What?"

 _White picket fence._ I was already starting to cry. I entwined my fingers with Bird's. "He wanted a normal life. In my world, we say, 'a white fence' to mean a normal life. House, a fence around it, marriage, children…." A tear escaped and I wiped it away. "We both knew not everything would be  _normal_ …. There is a war, and he is… was Ulfric's advisor…. I am to be a soldier for Meridia…." I took a deep breath. "I think… both Yrsarald and I thought… thought that we would be at least a  _little_ normal. Maybe even have children. Marry…." My tears rolled onto Bird's shoulder. "Being… Dragonborn…. This means… not normal. Is… is he angry with me?"

"Not you, Deb, no. The gods, however…. I imagine he may be quite angry with the gods right now."

After a while of crying freely on my friend's shoulder, I sat up and dried my face. "I should go…. Even asleep, I can hold him…." I sniffled and wiped my nose. I turned to Bird and gave him a knowing look. "Don't worry, Bird. Marc will be back soon."

Bird put on a brave face, and nodded.

 

. . . . . .

I barely slept that night. The voices and images in my mind were too loud and too bright. I instead held the sleeping Yrsarald from behind – I was the "big spoon" for once – offering silent moral support. His warmth was one of the strongest comforts I had ever known, even without his arms around me. If I couldn't sleep, I was glad to at least have him to hold. I dozed off a few times only to be woken by the dissonant voices inside my head, but eventually with the help of some tea I was able to get _some_ sleep.

When I woke up the next morning, Yrsarald was already gone. I voiced a small, whining sigh. I threw on my heavy, warm dressing gown, stepped into my buckskin slippers, and went to go see if Flavia was awake and hungry. She was.

After talking to Bird a bit more about my lack of conversing with Yrsarald, my friend reminded me that my birthday, my thirty-first, was only two-and-a-half weeks away. I had completely forgotten about it. I made a mental note, yet again, to make myself some sort of portable calendar to keep track of the dates instead of bugging Yrsarald, Wuunferth, or Jorleif all the time to look at theirs.

I felt very heavy that morning. Walking back to my room after Flavia's feeding, my slippers felt as if they were made of lead. I lumbered my way around my room, washing up and getting dressed, mind still stuck on the recycled thoughts of dragons, dragon words, and ponderings of what must be going through the minds of the Stormcloaks.

I cared little of what I looked like. I threw on my college robe, the unenchanted one that hadn't been painted with Ulfric's blood, slid on my fur boots, and tied up my hair in a messy sort-of-bun-thing. It was a difficult procedure to perfect without the use of elastic hairbands, but I eventually got the hang of it using a thin leather strip.

As I fiddled with said leather strip, I heard a  _clack_  behind me. Hands still above my head, finishing the tying of my hair, I turned to see nothing unusual. I finished my ambivalent hairdo and turned from the full-length mirror that Yrsarald had purchased a while ago for me – apparently I asked him too often how I looked and he thought he was doing me a favor by buying the thing; ironically, I noticed after a while that he used the mirror much more often than I did.

I was about to leave the room when I noticed Yrsarald's journal was on the floor, just in front of his night table. Soon after moving in with him, I had learned that he kept a dream journal – "Because my dreams are so realistic, I feel like I need to," he had said. The journal was open to a circular sketch and a description. I thought nothing of it, picked it up, and put it back on his night table. And then I realized – the sketch the journal fell open to looked familiar. I sat on the bed and opened the journal, searching for the page I had seen. It was the most recent entry. When I found it, my jaw dropped. The sketch was a circle comprising various designs, accented by little lines that perhaps indicated that the circle was glowing. Under the sketch and on the next page, Yrsarald had written:

 _Dark. Dead, headless draugr everywhere. Silent, except for a_ nynnig _coming from the circle. Something is missing, but I don't know what. Someone is here with me, but the figure is too bright to see, and doesn't speak words, but I hear things in my head. For some reason I know it's Ulfric. I don't know why I think this. I can't see his face or hear his voice, but it's Ulfric. He's sad and angry, and telling me to do something, but without words. I don't know what he wants. All I know is that there is something missing from this dark room and that_ nynnig _is giving me a headache. I have no idea what or where this room is._

_The dream felt quick, and I woke up as Ulfric was shouting something at me, within my mind. I wish I knew what he said. I am sorry, brother._

I closed the journal and placed it again on his night table. I stared a while at the plain leather cover. The static inside my head then dimmed only to be replaced by a familiar humming.

"Saarthal," I whispered.


	3. Shades of Grey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a bit of a sad chapter. It's only natural when there's a funeral to be held. And, no, there won't be all that many flashbacks in this story; these ones just fit well into what's going on in Deb's mind. (Or, do you like the flashbacks? I could always throw more in, here and there.) Oh, and, yeah, the title of this chapter is meant to be what it is. Heh. Heh. And, no, I've never read that book.
> 
> Also, please note that certain terms and phrases used within were used without any intended ill will, and character opinions do not necessarily reflect my own (particularly because none of the following topics are simply black and white; pun intended.)
> 
> Don't worry. Chapter four will be less depressing.
> 
> TW: Racism, racial terms, and archaic ideas of biological race divisions.

_Five years ago…_

"What is Social Darwinism?"

My class of sixty-some students stared back at me, either not knowing the answer or afraid to speak up. I smiled, half-sat on the little table in the front of the lecture hall, and waited another few moments.

"Anyone?" I waited. "No?" I waited some more. "No one remembers from the reading?" I grinned to hide my frustration. "Alright…." I advanced my PowerPoint to a slide showcasing Herbert Spencer and his theory. "Social Darwinism takes the theory of Natural Selection and Survival of the Fittest and uses them to justify customs, laws, colonialism, and wars. This way of thinking was and still is adhered to by elitists who believe that certain 'races' of humans are… higher up on the biological ladder than others. Hitler and the Nazi party are a prime example. The Ku Klux Klan, 'skin-head' Neo-Nazies, slave-keepers… really anyone that believes they and anyone who looks like  _them_  are genetically, biologically better than anyone else. This way of thinking has been more apparent in those of European ancestry and has led to the justification of slavery, genocide… things of this nature, but is certainly not exclusively practiced by Caucasians against non-Caucasians."

I advanced to a slide of Samuel Morton. "Your reading for today delved into Samuel Morton and the controversy surrounding him a little more in-depth than I will go today, but regardless of who wrote or thought these things originally, they were published and distributed as Morton's ideas."

I read what was written on the screen. "'The Caucasian race is distinguished for the facility with which it attains the highest intellectual endowments.' In other words, this is saying that white people are not only the smartest people, but are the only people  _capable_  of being the smartest." I continued. "'In their intellectual character the [Asians] are ingenious, imitative, and highly susceptible of [learning]. ... So versatile are their feelings and actions, that they have been compared to the monkey race, whose attention is perpetually changing from one object to another.' So, basically, this is saying all Asians are smart, but A.D.D., and can only  _mimic_ white people's intelligence. I won't even get started on the comparison to the 'monkey race'…." A few nervous chuckles sounded from my class. Racism, sexism, and any other type of bigotry were topics that most underclassmen were completely uncomfortable talking about, but I always forced them to. If nothing else, I wanted these students to walk away from the class with an in-your-face reality of the human condition and our colorful past.

I continued reading the quoted material. "'In their mental character the [Native] Americans are averse to [learning], and slow in acquiring knowledge; restless, revengeful, and fond of war…. They are crafty, sensual, ungrateful, obstinate and unfeeling…. They devour the most disgusting [foods] uncooked and uncleaned, and seem to have no idea beyond providing for the present moment. ... Their mental faculties, from infancy to old age, present a continued childhood. ... [Indians] are not only averse to the restraints of education, but for the most part are incapable of a continued process of reasoning on abstract subjects'."

I waited a moment before addressing the class. "What does this description of Native Americans exemplify?"

"Ethnocentrism," one of my brighter and more pro-active students called out.

"Exactly. The noting of the strange things Indians ate, the fact that they simply  _could not learn_  how to do things – what things, well… most likely things Europeans did every day, possibly things Native Americans never even thought about, or didn't have the technology to do. Basically, it's like judging a person on their ability to play the violin if they didn't previously know what a violin was. As for Native Americans not being able to envision the abstract or live beyond the moment…. Well, even as early as seven thousand years ago, Native Americans stored grain and nuts for the winter, and we know from historical times that they made a food called pemmican which would last for months on end. Making strips of dried meat is perhaps the earliest form of food storage in any human group, and dried meat can last for ages as well. But, by the time Europeans began regularly interacting with aborigines, no matter the continent, their way of life was compromised, and it's no wonder they couldn't gather the resources they were once able to in order to provide for themselves….

"Let's pick apart other bits of this quote. 'Revengeful. Ungrateful. Obstinate.' Why might this have been the case? Why were the Native Americans seen this way? Why might they have been revengeful?"

"Because they were losing their own land," another student called out.

"Absolutely. If your home was being taken away from you, wouldn't you be pissed off? Just a little bit? They were labeled as 'ungrateful' because the Europeans believed they were bestowing unto them the gift of Christianity and of, well, being European, and of course the Indians already had their own culture and religion. Religion, of course, is a prime example of the ability to think in the abstract, because, well, I don't know about you, but I've never seen an angel or a demon, but I can probably draw a horrible sketch of them." Chuckles, and an overheard murmur of "Supernatural" flowed forward from the class.

"But because the Indians didn't see God the way Europeans did, their abstract reasoning skills were seen as lacking. Oh, but they did eat raw bits of bison. Raw organs were seen as not only a delicacy by some tribes, but some of them were seen as sacred, and a  _gift_  to be able to eat, sometimes reserved for the shamans. Just in case you were wondering…. And finally, by calling them 'sensual', they're basically saying that the Indians had a lot of sex. This was of course seen as a bad thing…." Snicker, snicker, chuckle and giggle. I liked my class.

I moved on to the last quote. "'In disposition the Negro is joyous, flexible, and [lazy]; [they] present a singular diversity of intellectual character, of which the far extreme is the lowest grade of humanity. ... Like most other barbarous nations their institutions are not infrequently characterized by superstition and cruelty. They appear to be fond of warlike enterprises, and are not deficient in personal courage; but, once overcome, they yield to their destiny, and accommodate themselves with amazing facility to every change of circumstance. The Negroes have little invention, but strong powers of imitation, so that they readily acquire mechanic arts. They have a great talent for music, and all their external senses are remarkably acute'." I paused after finishing. "What's different about this quote?"

Silence.

"There are a lot of good things," a student said quietly.

"Yes," I nodded, "there  _are_ a lot of good things said. What are those good things about?"

Silence.

"Courage, and…," a student pondered out loud, "adapting."

"Working with their hands," another called out.

"Why do you say that?" I asked the recent commenter.

"'Mechanic arts'. They say they are good with their hands," the student confirmed.

"Exactly. And what does this… relate to? Why is this noted?"

Silence.

"Slavery," another student offered.

"Yep," I affirmed. "Basically, slave-owners didn't feel guilty, because their African slaves were 'born' for manual labor."

A frown formed on my face as I gazed at an unoccupied chair. Thinking of the history of my world always made me depressed, and often very angry. I felt great empathy for people who lived through atrocities committed against them by other humans, particularly those against my own distant relatives. Genocide and racism in general really, really pissed me off. Not having personally been affected by racism, however, I could only say that I suffered from white person's guilt, big time. "This is Social Darwinism," I said with a sigh, ending my segment on Anthropology's own sorry past.

"Now," I continued, "let's talk about the word 'race'."

. . . . . .

_Five months ago…_

"Grey-faced _tyk_! Get the fuck out of my way. Get the fuck out of all our ways. Stay in the Grey Quarter where Ulfric put you – where you belong!" I heard the angry man shout from the other end of the market square. The phrase 'grey-faced' was a new one to my ears, and I was more confused than anything.

I passed through the somewhat dense midday crowd, avoiding bumping into people with my rounded, pregnant belly. I finally saw the 'grey-faced' person in question. She was a nice Dark Elf woman, Luaffyn, a bard who often played at the Candlehearth inn. She was a lovely person, both inside and out, and certainly not grey in the face. Her skin was a distinct dark teal. She did have those same terrifying red eyes that most Dark Elves had, though, but Luaffyn, like Brelyna, was anything but terrifying.

Before I reached Luaffyn's side, the angry Nord man stomped off, spewing something about Skyrim belonging to the Nords and Ulfric being the Nord's King for a reason.

"Luaffyn," I approached her, lightly grasping her arm. "Are you alright? Who was that man?"

"Get off of me!" she screeched, swatting my hand away.

"What? Luaffyn, what's wrong?"

"Just… go." Her hands were up, as if defending herself from being looked upon by me. "Go back to the palace. To the rest of your kind and your elf-hating Jarl. Leave me alone." Luaffyn walked away, but not before shooting me a morose, betrayed look.

I plodded slowly all the way back to the palace, fur-clad feet heavy on the stone. I had a knapsack full of necessities from the market, and mind full of doubt.

Yrsarald was in the map room when I entered. The man looked up at me, worry written across his face. "What's wrong?"

I set my knapsack down against the wall and gazed at Yrsarald. I bit my lip, not sure how to broach the subject weighing on my mind. Yrsarald approached me, his hands gravitating instantly to my baby belly, lips pressing against my forehead.

"What is it?" he asked, nudging my chin up, urging me to look him in his worried eyes.

I kept my voice low. Stone walls allowed for far-away eaves-dropping. "I… heard things. In the market. Things about Ulfric – that he only cares about Nords, and… there was this man. He…," I frowned, deeply. "He called that Dark Elf bard something awful. She's so nice, Luaffyn. I've talked with her a few times…. How could anyone hate her so much? She started crying, so I went to go help her but she hit my hand away. She told me to go back to the palace with the rest of 'my kind'. I don't," I wiped a tear from my cheek, "I don't know what happened, Yrsa."

Yrsarald took me into his arms and held me close. "You've been here for months, and only now you hear such things being said?"

I stepped back, away from Yrsarald. "Do you mean this is common? Awful things being said to elves? No wonder people say such bad things about Ulfric."

"Ulfric has reason to hate elves."

I sat down on a chair, resting my aching feet. "Yes, you have told me. But those were not Dark Elves." In the past, Ulfric had been held captive and tortured by soldiers of the Aldmeri Dominion, High Elves, sometimes called Altmer. Thalmor, they were called.

"No, but," Yrsarald pulled up a chair and sat next to me, "Ulfric has trouble trusting anyone, even Nords. It's true; he has no reason to distrust or dislike anyone but the Thalmor and the Dominion. He just can't help it."

"So he allows the Dark Elves to live in such bad houses? Allows people to be horrible to them? Because he can't trust people? I saw the small area, in the eastern part of the city. I walked through it. It smelled, Yrsa. It smelled, and there was stuff in the road, and it reminded me of bad parts of my world where people have no money. Why does Ulfric do nothing? This is not fair, to force elves to live that way, just because he has a bad past with other elves."

"Did you not just say that your world has similar conditions?"

I blinked at Yrsarald. "Yes, but…." My jaw hung low as words failed to come. I pressed my lips together when I realized that it was true, that we had the exact same problem in America. Impoverished people, more often than not people of color, lived in such conditions, mostly in cities. Many anthropologists explained this by simply citing history.  _Social truth is an artifact of power_. I looked over my shoulder at Yrsarald and said, "The truth of the world is a remnant of powerful people."

Yrsarald furrowed his brow and asked, "What does that mean?"

I sighed. "It means, things are how they are because of who makes the rules. In my world, people who look like Nords, Imperials… or people from High Rock, they make the rules, at least in my land, and have made the rules for hundreds of years. It is horrible, and is something I hate about my world. Anyone who looks like you or me is seen as having a kind of power over anyone who looks like… well, darker. Darker like… oh, what are they called? Redguard. We do not have elves, just humans, but I think if we did have elves they would be called bad names in my world. It is disgusting. There is no reason for it. A long time ago, people who looked like me called everyone else less of a person. Less human. Closer to animals. Because, they thought, people with skin the color of yours or mine were more like a god. This is only the thoughts of people from one land, though. Some people from other lands see anyone who is not like them, whatever they look like, as being less of a person, alright to be a slave. But the land of my ancestors had the money, the power. And, so,  _their_  truth became the truth of the entire world…." I hugged my round belly. "Thinking of the horrible history of my world makes me sick. People like me in my world, we work to help people understand why this happened, why people hate people not like them. Most people never learn these things, though."

A hand curved around my robed knee and stayed there. "I do not think our worlds are so different," Yrsarald said.

"No?"

The man sighed, and then wrapped an arm around me. "Many Nords think that Skyrim belong to them, and that no one else should share the land. But, this land once belonged to other people as well. Nords today easily forget this."

"Who was here before the Nords? I remember Ulfric talking to me about native… 'vol',… 'volgen'…."

" _Volginen_. That is not their correct name; it is rather used to insult them. They are called the Reachmen, and they live near Markarth."

"Oh. So, they were in Markarth but the Empire wanted them out. Why? If they are native to the land, it is their land."

"Markarth, the city, was not theirs, no. The land itself – yes, it can be said that the land should be theirs. But they were not the first to live in The Reach. Long ago, Dwemer made Markarth. They are a people now gone from this world. After, for thousands of years, Reachmen, and even orcs, lived across that land. Then the Empire won it from the Reachmen. That was a long time ago."

"But why did the Empire take the land? Because it was part of Skyrim?"

"Silver," he said. "Markarth has silver."

"Oh, well…," I laughed a little. "Of course. The Empire must have their shiny things…."

"Markarth is a very rich city, yes, but from what I know, the native Reachmen do not desire silver. They simply want the land."

"Then why do they not have it?"

"Because they keep killing Nord farmers and others who cannot defend themselves."

"Oh…." It would have been naïve of me to say that they should all just learn to live together on the same land, so I didn't. It took a long, long time, after all, for Europeans in colonized lands to stop exterminating the natives that they deemed lesser than them. Despite eventually sharing the land peacefully, the  _conquistador_ mentality never really went away from the dominant population, and aborigines worldwide never really stopped being oppressed. From an evolutionist standpoint, the Europeanization of the world was nothing more than one group being outcompeted for resources by another. From a human standpoint, it was simply abominable. I was legitimately shocked to learn of similar histories in a completely different world. It was a disappointing realization, to say the least. "Do you think anything could change that?" I asked Yrsarald. "Stop the killings?"

Yrsarald shook his head. "The hatred has been there too long. It is the same with almost every race. Attachments to land can be very strong, as can beliefs about others. The Nords believe Skyrim belongs to them. Many Dark Elves feel the same way about their country. And the High Elves think they are better than everyone. Many elves consider humans to be idiots, just like Wuunferth does." Yrsarald gave a small chuckle, but was soon frowning again. "Elves once used humans as slaves. The Dark Elves used to have Argonian slaves. Humans had Khajiit and Argonian slaves. No one truly trusts orcs, and orcs don't usually trust anyone but other orcs. And anyone found out to be werebear or werewolf is usually hunted and killed. But… compared to what the world used to be like, I think things are better. Ulfric and Galmar accepted me despite knowing what I was. As far as I know no one is a slave to anyone, now, not legally anyway. And while there are still some who see people different from them and say horrible things, elves live and work in Skyrim. Argonians and Khajiit and orcs, too. There are big trust issues, though, still within people's minds. I don't know if they'll ever truly go away."

"But, Yrsa, why not at least make the place where the Dark Elves live here better? Clean it. The houses are falling apart."

"Deborah," Yrsarald said, turning to face me, "there is no money. The entire city suffers, not just the old area of the city that was given to the Dark Elves who came here in need of somewhere to live."

"They needed somewhere to live?"

"Yes, after the fire-mountain erupted in their country."

 _Refugees_ , I thought. "And Ulfric just gave them the homes?"

"No, that happened two hundred years ago. The area where the elves live wasn't always so horrible, it has just…," Yrsarald shifted uneasily. "The money has gone elsewhere over the last thirty years."

"War."

"Yes."

"War always eats money. In any world…."

Yrsarald leaned toward me and planted a kiss on my cheek. "I'm sorry your friend was upset with you. Perhaps wait a few days and then seek her out. Anyone who knows you should know that you do not see people different from yourself in a bad way. If that was the case, you would not be with me. You would not be happy at all in this world. But you are doing well, no longer scared, it seems."

A small smile crept across my face, but only briefly. "I wonder if there are other worlds out there that have never known slaves, or hatred between people who look different."

"There is always someone who thinks they deserve power over another."

I frowned. "From what I have heard, Ulfric is that person."

Yrsarald's sigh was more of a low growl. "There are people who hate Ulfric for things he has done, or not done. He retook Markarth for the Empire. The natives of the area now hate him. Some people think Ulfric is tearing this country apart, and so they hate him, even though I don't know any Nord that  _doesn't_  want to be able to worship Talos. Though there is no money to fix what is broken in the city, and no troops to spare to hunt down outlaws that cause problems in the Hold, those people affected by the lack of money or troops think Ulfric keeps them to himself on purpose. And, so, they hate him. But he doesn't think he deserves power over others, not any more than a Jarl or King would be given. He does what he can with what he has."

Yrsarald's excuses for the Jarl were starting to get on my nerves. I would have understood if Ulfric was simply a selfish man. I wouldn't have liked it, but I would have understood. But, at the same time, I had no idea how one combatted racism other than by arresting people for harassment, and even that was unlikely to have lasting effects. The poor living conditions of the area where the Dark Elves lived, however, there was no excuse for that. It felt as if Ulfric was just another politician, pandering to those who would help him most in fighting for him – the Nords. The longer the war between the Stormcloaks and the Empire lasted, the worse off the Dark Elves in Windhelm would be. I wondered if Ulfric treated had the elves of Windhelm better if they would have joined his army, or if the elves supported the Empire. I wondered if they simply didn't care either way who won the war.

"I know there is no simple way to make things better, Yrsa, but I just… I think Ulfric is being a coward. He is hiding behind the fight to make Skyrim free. If there truly was no money, everyone would be hungry. You, me, Ulfric…. Everyone. But we have plenty of food, Yrsa. I am getting so fat from the food, here."

"You are not fat, you're with child."

I grumbled and hid behind my palms for a moment, allowing myself to calm down. "I just… I feel so helpless. I want to do things, but I don't know what to do. And I am so…  _angry_."

"There is nothing you  _can_  do, Deborah."

I glared at Yrsarald, and then looked away. "I suppose, then, I will just be angry." I stood, grabbed my knapsack, and walked up to my bedroom.

. . . . . .

_Five seconds ago…_

Windhelm's citizens crammed in as close as they could to watch the midday funeral ceremony. I noticed that mostly non-elf people were in the crowd, which I found odd considering three of the dead were Dark Elves. When the ceremony began, Helgird, the priestess of Arkay, had her new apprentice, a young man, begin what I supposed was the traditional Nord funeral chant.

" _O Dath…_

_O Dath…_

_Kir veita anar eruva…."_

Ulfric Stormcloak lay on a stone slab in front of the Hall of the Dead. Helgird had prepared Ulfric's body for the funeral the night before with Yrsarald's help. A linen cloth had been draped over what had been his head. Yrsarald had picked out the clothes Ulfric was to be dressed in: a heavy cloth tunic, embroidered down the front, and dark cloth trousers. Yrsarald had helped Helgird dress Ulfric's corpse in the clothes.

The five other dead, citizens of the city I did not know, were laid out to the side of Ulfric on wooden pallets. One of them, a street child named Sofie, and an older beggar woman, Silda, had been burned alive by the dragon. The three others were adults who died in a building collapse in the Grey Quarter, the area of the city where the Dark Elves lived. I did not know them, but their names were Malthyr, Suvaris, and Belyn. The buildings were in such disrepair in the Grey Quarter that the dragon barely had to  _look_  at the buildings to make them quake, apparently. The three Dark Elves had just happened to be talking in the street when the building stones fell on them. All five victims of the attack were shrouded completely with linen, likely due to the state of their bodies.

" _Hvera thola ast enda_

_Mina hanten se iz fanga."_

After the funeral, Ulfric would be taken to his final resting place deep in the mortuary where his ancestors had been laid to rest. The other Nord dead would be buried, if the ground was not frozen solid, in the city cemetery. The Dark Elf dead would be cremated, as per their custom.

" _Tid ath Mizkun ers sarka_

_Da sil ti Shor zeik skul bera."_

Yrsarald stood silent at my side, arms folded over his chest. One of my arms hooked his, and I used him for comfort as well as warmth. Thankfully, a guard had retrieved my cloak from Calixto's house the night before, but I was still shivering.

After the funeral chanting was completed, Helgird recited the dead's last rites. " _Svasa_ Ulfric Stormcloak, son of Bjorn Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm,  _Upjafir_  of the Great War, Defender of Talos and Leader of the Rebellion, we  _felan_  your soul to Aetherius.  _Nathen_  of the Nine Gods be upon you. Little Sofie,  _afle_  of flowers, and Silda, both children of the city, we  _felan_  your souls to Aetherius.  _Nathen_  of the Nine Gods be upon you both. Malthyr Elenil, businessman and bartender; Suvaris Atheron, book-keeper for the Shatter-Shield Shipping Office; and Belyn Hlaalu, farmer – we  _felan_  your souls to Aetherius.  _Nathen_  of the Nine Gods and Azura be upon you all."

When Helgird's blessings finished, Galmar stepped up to take her place. He cleared his throat. Yrsarald left my side to join in at the center of our attention. I listened as both men delivered Ulfric's eulogy, reciting his various deeds and exploits, hardships he had faced, and how he and his guards, and me, heroically slayed a dragon. I felt a small pang of guilt when Yrsarald called his best friend's death a "terrible tragedy" – I was, admittedly, only sad because Yrsarald was sad. I felt empathy for my lover's loss, but that was it. I knew I should have been more affected by the Jarl's death, though. Ulfric  _did_  allow me to stay at his palace, train with Wuunferth, and even let my weird little family move in to my old bedroom next to Yrsarald's. I just couldn't shake the feeling that the dead Jarl was an awful racist and a scheming politician. I wondered if the Dark Elves of the city were throwing a party in their slum before they mourned the loss of their brethren; I wondered why most of the city's Dark Elves were not at the funeral.

The remainder of the ceremony was performed by anyone present who had parting thoughts about the five dead citizens. Everyone seemed to love the little girl, Sofie, but no one had much to say about Silda, except that she offered conversation for patrolling guards and that some people had given her money occasionally, feeling sorry for her. The families and employers of the Dark Elves spoke kind words in turn, but kept their speeches to a minimum.

And then it was over.

As the crowd dispersed, Yrsarald walked back over to me with a sullen look on his face. Without a word, he enveloped me in his lumberjack arms. I felt his fingers dig into the fur of my cloak. For several long and wonderful moments, he simply held me there in front of the Hall of the Dead. I wasn't sure if he was hugging me for himself, for me, or for us both. It didn't really matter. We both needed a hug, but we had just attended his best friend's funeral – he deserved as much comfort as I could give him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The funeral song lyrics were based on the traditional song "O Death" (I recommend the version by Jen Titus, however abbreviated).
> 
> The version here reads:  
> "O Death  
> Please give another year.  
> All endure at the end  
> My hands of ice grip.  
> Time and Mercy are absent  
> Your soul to Shor I will bear."
> 
> A note: As "unlocking" Shouts with a dragon soul is a game mechanic, as are Word Walls, I'm going about this more realistically. Ancient dragon's souls are likely more powerful, and may cause more internal commotion when absorbed. As Deb experienced some memories of the dragon, she learned some dragon words. That knowledge at once became basically innate. I don't see why a dragon, particularly an ancient one, can't know more than one Shout. Also, the dialogue that Deb experienced in her dragon-memory contained all of those words in sentence form. Same with Torug in his short story. But the dragon that he first downed was not as ancient as the one Deb downed, and he only learned the primary words of multiple Shouts. Anyway, technically if you absorbed the soul of a dragon you'd understand their entire language and possibly even their way of thinking (as Deb knew that Viinturuth wanted to crunch on their bones), but perhaps if one was utterly linked to that dragon soul, it'd be overwhelming. Baby steps, I guess. As for Word Walls, Deb already saw one in Saarthal, and nothing happened. This means that one has to actually read the thing in order to learn the words. It is unrealistic to automatically know which word would be useful in a Shout... unless perhaps you already have an actual dragon's soul inside you (as opposed to whatever Akatosh breathed into Deb's re-made body), and maybe not even then, particularly if the dragon soul inside you didn't know that Shout.


	4. The Brighter Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A good "feels" song for this chapter is "Weight of Your World" by Roo Panes. Hopefully this chapter will make you cry and smile at the same time. Let me know….
> 
> Responding to a question about Deb's physique, she was, back on Earth, as you imagined, basically the subject of a Rubens painting. She had some muscle from working in the field, but she was always big (she's also tall, about 5'9"). Since being taken into Skyrim, however, she consistently lost weight, probably due to the lack of high fructose corn syrup and cheeseburgers, but then lost considerable weight during her mage training, as casting spells every day takes energy. While pregnant, she gained some weight back and ate filling palace food (sometimes in bed with Yrsarald, heh), and would probably be a size 16US/18UK (similar to Ruben's "Andromeda", just with much bigger breasts).
> 
> I would bet that the Nord mentality about physique is the harder the better, which means most Nord women are going to be fairly strong (not necessarily muscular, but strong). Deb would definitely stand out. Stenvar has commented that she was, when he first met her, "soft and squishy like a rotten berry", but he has also said how much he either doesn't mind or even prefers it (Dibella is all curves!). And Yrsarald, well, he's pretty big himself - an ex-soldier emotional eater given a desk job... So, not all Nord men, at least, want a typical Nord woman. To each their own.

The families of the fallen Dark Elves collected the bodies, carrying them on makeshift stretchers, and walked away with them to proceed with their own funeral. They were going to perform the ceremony outside the city walls where they could safely set up three funeral pyres. Yrsarald related this information to me as we walked back to the palace, but he didn't know why the Dark Elves preferred to burn their dead.

As we approached the palace, Yrsarald lowered his voice, but continued talking. "I want to be burned, when I die."

I turned to him, for whatever reason almost pleased. "Me too," I said.

"You do? Is that what people in your world do?"

"No. Well, yes. No…." I shook my head. "Not like you do, here, not on a pile of wood. They used to…. Well, I suppose in some lands they still do, but in my land, most people are buried, and some are burned in special buildings that have very, very hot fires inside them only for this purpose."

Yrsarald didn't have a response to my description of a crematorium. Instead, his hand found mine, and my gloved fingers intertwined with his. We walked hand-in-hand the rest of the way to the palace.

Jorleif and Galmar were already in the main hall when we entered. "There you are," Galmar said to me, reaching out a hand and motioning for me to come forward.

"Here I am," I said.

"Galmar needs to speak with you," Jorleif elaborated.

"I…," I turned back to Galmar. "Oh. Alright."  _So much for having a quiet, private talk with Yrsa._

"Listen," Galmar began, "if what happened yesterday means what we think it means—"

"It  _does_ , Galmar," Yrsarald interrupted.

The bear-helmed veteran soldier turned to give Yrsarald a stern look, and then returned his gaze to me. "You're Dragonborn. Or, at least, you took into you the soul of that dragon. We all saw it, the guards saw it, likely some citizens, too. As far as we know, that means you're Dragonborn. It also means that," Galmar's shoulders sank, "you,  _you_  are what we need right now." The old man looked like he had sucked on a rotten egg.

"What," I looked at the three men around me, "what do you mean, I am what you need?" I paused a moment, a tiny smirk attempting to sneak onto my face. "You need a mage?"

"No, not a  _mage_ ," Galmar nearly spat the word. He pressed his lips together in thought. "Something to give the troops hope. Something to help them see Ulfric's death is not the end of the Rebellion."

_Oh._  "You want to… show me to your soldiers…."

Galmar nodded.

I looked at Yrsarald. "I thought you, Ulfric's soldier-brother, would be the one to bring hope."

My partner shook his head. "No, I'm needed here. You're needed… well, wherever you're needed. If you are indeed Dragonborn," his voice quieted, "then you're needed by the people. Very much needed."

"I leave tomorrow, or the day after," Galmar said, "as soon as I can to visit the camps. I want  _you_ with me."

"Oengul is going to try and find some armor that fits you," Jorleif added.

"Armor!?" The word was nearly foreign to my tongue. "No, wait." I took a step back. "I cannot go  _now_! I cannot leave Flavia." I turned to Yrsarald. "You  _know_  this."

"I tried to tell him," Yrsarald explained, nodding toward Galmar.

The bear-helmed veteran Stormcloak grumbled something about women. "When  _can_  you leave the infant?"

I thought a brief moment. "Months more, at least. It depends on  _these._ " I unceremoniously grabbed my breasts. "I may be feeding Flavia for a year or two."

"A  _year_!?" Galmar growled.

I sighed, and sat down at the banquet table. I was hungry. Not sleeping much had caused me to have a severe appetite. Eating was also a distraction from the dragon voice in my head. While I poured myself some honey-water, I addressed Galmar. "Just put the skull of the dragon in a big cart and show it to the soldiers. Tell them I am… doing important Dragonborn things." I took a bite out of a pastry and turned to look at the three men who simply stood there, watching me, expectant. "What?" I hated their staring. "Fine, then tell them I am busy breastfeeding." I spread some soft cheese on a slice of bread. "It is important, and I may be Dragonborn, so… it is an important Dragonborn thing."

"The Stormcloaks need you out there with them!" Galmar shouted, moving to stand in my line of sight. "They need to  _see_  the Dragonborn!"

"I am not a Stormcloak!" I rebutted with a mouth full of cheesy bread. I finished chewing, and swallowed. "You did not want me, so I am not a Stormcloak!" I turned to Yrsarald, who looked shocked at my declaration. I wasn't sure what he had expected. I turned back to my food. "I am sorry Ulfric is dead, but I am not yours to do things with. I have my own life. For now I am needed here, and then we will see what I am to do about this dragon thing."

"'Dragon thing'!?" Galmar slammed his fists down onto the banquet table in front of me before he leaned forward and shoved his face in front of mine. "That  _orc_  killed your Jarl. The orc was Dragonborn;  _you_ are Dragonborn. What do you think will happen when word reaches my men that 'the Dragonborn' killed Ulfric Stormcloak!?"

"Are your soldiers so slow that they cannot understand the difference between orc and not orc!?" I shouted back at him.

"Stop it, you two!" Yrsarald yelled. He did not look happy. "Obviously Deborah cannot leave Flavia, and she cannot take the infant with her. You don't need her, Galmar. She's right – take the dragon skull, take guards with you who saw everything. The soldiers trust you; they will believe what you tell them."

Galmar glared at me, stood up straight, and puffed his chest. His massive arm muscles rippled with rage. Before turning to leave, he muttered what sounded to me like "fucking women".

Yrsarald gave me a weak, sympathetic smile and turned to leave the main hall. I grabbed a plate of food and followed him, and we walked to our bedroom in silence. When we were inside and the door was closed, Yrsarald grabbed a ceramic jug and, with an inhuman roar, hurled it across the room. I recoiled as the thing shattered into innumerable sherds, its contents splashing over a considerable expanse of the room.

I stood back, cautious, wondering if Yrsarald's violent venting was over or not. After a few silent moments of panting in an attempt to dissipate his pain and anger, he finally spoke. "I need to change."

I asked, very delicately, "Did you get wet?"

"No, no." His fists clenched. "I need to  _change_."

"Oh." Change.  _Skiftar_. I supposed what he meant by that word, in the current context, was "shift". He needed to shift.

"You can leave, if you want." He began to remove his funeral clothes.

_Hell, no_ , I thought to myself.  _No way_.  _This time, I will not run. I will not leave you. Never again. Never._  I approached my partner with tentative steps. Though he still looked like he wanted to kill something or someone, he looked somewhat surprised to see me still there, with him; he was surprised even more when I began to help him remove his tunic. The thing was ornate, much more so than anything else I'd seen of his. His bear-paw uniform had been thrown away, the fur and leather having been irreparably stained with Ulfric's blood, a relic of a tragedy for which my partner did not want a memento. I wondered if Yrsarald would get a new one.

As I unfastened the toggles of Yrsarald's tunic, the man watched, letting his arms fall to his sides. Once loose, I locked eyes with my partner and lifted the tunic off of his shoulders, catching it before it hit the floor. I folded it against my chest, turned, and placed it on his dresser. I felt fingers gently graze my forearm. I turned back to face Yrsarald. His face was expressionless, perhaps neutralized between sadness, anger, or withdrawal from them both. I began to undo his belt, and he let me. His heavy cloth trousers fell to his feet, and he stepped out of them as well as his boots. I collected them from the floor and set them aside. I noticed his fists continuing to stay clenched as I began to untuck his loincloth. When I turned to face Yrsarald again, I saw the yellow light in his eyes begin to brighten. He was ready. I leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. I then walked away, letting my hand caress his form as I passed. I walked over to my dresser and picked up the ugly, stuffed toy bear he had given me months ago. I crawled onto the bed, hugged the bear to my chest, and waited for Yrsarald to shift into his werebear form.

The process happened faster than last time, likely due to the rage that had been building inside him. As I did before, I watched the entire phenomenon. When Yrsarald was gone and a man-bear behemoth stood in his place, a roar, similar to that of a lion, bellowed from deep within the beast's chest. The guttural sound vibrated my insides and gave me a chill. Yrsarald's werebear shift had previously been peaceful, and despite being terrified the entire time I later admitted to myself that I almost found Bear-Yrsa cute. It was the fur; I liked furry things. This time, however… I was again terrified, but realized just how un-cute Bear-Yrsa truly was.  _Bear-Yrsa,_ I mused. _Yrsa-Bear. Ursa, bear._ The revelation temporarily amused me, despite knowing that "Yrsa" did not mean "bear" in Norren.

The fact that Yrsarald, in his werebear form or not, was lethal did not escape me. Yrsarald was large, powerful, and smart. Bear-Yrsa was brutal, enraged, and dangerous. His mouth was open in a constant snarl and this time I got a good look at his vicious teeth. I watched as the man I loved stomped around the room, panting and grunting, part of the time on all fours and other times on just his legs. He roared again. I heard the glass windows rattle. Others in the palace – guards, the cook and other staff who might not have known about Yrsarald – had to be hearing this. I hoped that they would ignore it.

The man had a right to be angry. His best friend had been murdered. His war was compromised. His lover was no longer simply his. I wondered, as I watched the bear-man, if our relationship would weather whatever was to come. That is, if both of us survived. I had a feeling that the Imperials would be swarming Windhelm in no time. I wondered if we were all going to die.

Several more long and generally horrifying moments of intermittent grunting, stomping, and roaring later, Yrsarald stilled, and shifted back into his Norse god-like human form. I crawled to the edge of the bed, ready to comfort him. I was taken aback, however, by the audible sobs that escaped the hunched-over man. His shoulders were shaking. He was breaking down.

I ran over to Yrsarald, dropped to my knees, and wrapped my arms around him.

. . . . . .

The nap we both took was practically obligatory. Upon waking, Yrsarald and I lay together in silence for a long time. Plenty was said with our eyes, delicate kisses, and gentle caresses.  _Yes, I am here for you_ , said my kisses.  _Yes, I am doing alright_ , said my smiles.

Yrsarald was grateful – still utterly distraught and angry, but grateful. Both of us were sad, for ourselves and for one another. Yrsarald was worried, and defeated. I too was worried, but oddly hopeful.

As if nothing had happened between the present and the funeral hours ago, Yrsarald continued our previous conversation. "Why do you want to be burned when you die?" he asked, his voice so quiet I barely understood him. I realized he didn't exactly want to talk about the subject of death, but I supposed he understood that last wishes were important for couples to discuss.

"I…," I stalled, not sure how to explain my feelings toward the decision I made years ago. "I didn't like my life very much in my world. There were many good things, but also some very bad things. In my world, we are not sure what happens after death, but, I didn't want to risk becoming stuck to my life there. Like a ghost, you understand? I didn't want to… remain. I just wanted to be gone. So, I wanted to be burned."

Yrsarald wrapped his arms around me and pressed his lips to mine. He then moved back, letting his hand drift down my arm to end with his fingers intertwining with mine. "What very bad things?" he asked.

I frowned. "I was… never very happy. I was alright. I was… what is your word for… not happy but, not sad either?"

" _Vunra_ ," he answered. " _Vunra_ ," he repeated, staring at my shoulder. "I was  _vunra_ , too. Not happy, not sad.  _Vunra_  with what I had, being alone with the gods and my friends, my job…." He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and gazed at me again. "Why were you not happy?"

I thought about what I would say, what I  _should_ say, feeling my frown lines deepen and anxiety threatening to overcome me. I opted for complete honesty, despite how crazy Yrsarald might think me. "I… ehh… I did not like my world. I think that is why I did the job that I did. I studied ancient people because… I wanted to live, in a small way, another life." I gave a tiny, stress-filled laugh. "Be careful what you hope for."

"You think the gods were listening?"

I shook my head. "No, no. No one was listening to me." I tapped the side of my head. "It was all up here. I stayed quiet. I told no one what I truly wanted."

"The gods can hear your thoughts."

I laughed a little louder that time. "Yrsa, no gods are listening in my world. Were the gods from your world listening to me?" I shook my head again. "I don't know. There were portals, yes, but… no. I was alone. No one was listening. There was nowhere to go. I was stuck being  _vunra_  with what I had." I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes, willing myself to calm down. "So, I did the one thing that made me almost-happy, the one thing I enjoyed doing for a job. I married a man that made me almost-happy. I never loved him, not like I thought I should have loved…."

"Why did you marry a man you did not love?"

"I…, no, Yrsa, I loved my… how do you say… no-longer-husband?"

" _Fyra_  husband."

" _Fyra_  husband…. I loved him, but not the way I love you. Nothing like us. Perhaps that is why it did not…. Why he…."

Yrsarald lifted my chin so that I would look at him. "What did he do? I remember you said that you were not unhappy that your marriage ended."

I was not terribly fond of talking about my ex-husband. I closed my eyes and breathed in Yrsarald's calming scent, preparing myself to revisit one of the more painful chapters of my life.

. . . . . .

" _You… what!?"_

_Greg turned his back to me. I could see him rubbing his forehead._

" _Greg!" I shouted at my husband._

" _You were gone for a year!" he turned and shouted back at me._

" _You think that's an excuse!? Blaming my fieldwork?" I couldn't believe my ears. "One year. You couldn't keep it in your fucking pants for a year!?"_

_He walked up to me, nostrils flaring. "She's pregnant," he said._

_My breath caught._ This is not happening,  _I said to myself, repeatedly._

_Greg started laughing nervously. "One time," he continued. "It only took one time. Unlike you, who must be… broken or something."_

_I coughed, choking on the little oxygen I could inhale. I slumped onto the sofa. "My god…." I turned my head side to side, over and over again. "Since when is that so… so FUCKING important that you…." I looked up at Greg in utter disbelief. "Were you drunk?"_

_He shook his head. "No, Deb. No. We'd been… close… for a while. It just happened one night. But," he walked closer to the sofa and stood before me, his arms folded across his chest. "I'm going to stay with her." His arms dropped to his sides and he stared down at me. I couldn't look at him anymore and had to turn away. I buried my face in my hands. "I love her."_

" _Oh my god…."_

" _I'm sorry. Really, I am. But," he sighed, pausing before the likely horrible thing that would follow. "I need a divorce."_

" _Fuck…."_

" _I'm going to move in with her, soon. I'll stay there tonight." I heard him walk around the coffee table and sit down next to me on the sofa. "Look, I just wanted to be honest with you. You deserve that much, at least. I am sorry. I'm truly, truly sorry. But I… I just can't do this with you anymore."_

_I couldn't stop the tears from falling. At least I was covering my face with my hands._ No, _I told myself._ Fuck him. Let him see you cry. _I lowered my hands and turned to Greg. He was horribly, awfully calm, no longer angry or upset, not anything. His rich brown eyes were clear of any signs of sadness, guilt, or regret._

_I wanted to bite his throat out. I wanted to slam his face against the wall and rip out his carotid with my teeth. Instead, I opted for the non-self-damning high road. Though I was trembling, I stood from the sofa. Glaring down at Greg, I clenched my fists._ Don't punch him. Don't.

" _Get out," I ordered him._

_He nodded, and then stood from the sofa._

_It took every ounce of willpower within me to refrain from attacking the man as he walked toward the apartment door. He picked up the overnight bag that he had already prepared, turned, gave me an emotionless look, and left._

_The apartment was suddenly quiet. Too quiet. A void. I stared at my suitcase that was still standing by the door, filled with unwashed clothes and field gear and gifts I'd brought back from Romania. I walked over to the large bag, unzipped it, and found the gift I had bought for Greg. With a scream, I threw it against the wall._

. . . . . .

We then lay in silence. Yrsarald had held me tight as I told him about my ex-husband. When I paused, he gave me a squeeze. I continued with my tale. "We ended our marriage maybe… two years before I came here. I was happy to do it."

Yrsarald backed away again somewhat; he looked distraught. "He left you for another woman because you were gone often? And could not make children?"

I nodded. "Something like that. He could not be alone, I suppose. And, yes. I tried to get pregnant, and it did not happen, but I don't know why."

"But it happens now…."

_It did. It did happen, now_. I gazed at Yrsarald. "Perhaps the gods fixed me… or all the healing spells I cast did. It fixed me."

Yrsarald leaned forward and kissed my forehead. "Were you more happy, after he left?"

I nodded slowly. "I was angry and sad, in the beginning, but became more happy with time. But… still not very happy." I kissed Yrsarald, muffling a sob that managed to escape my lungs. I then wrapped my arm around his bare chest and held him tighter than ever. "I thank your gods for bringing me to you. I love you. I love you…."

"Deborah, I love you too, but…," his strong hands caressed my back, "do you truly think you need a man to be happy?"

"I didn't say that." I slid back and peered up at him. "I just felt… I felt not complete before. All my life, I did." I frowned, and reached up to entangle my fingers in his hair. "Maybe it truly was fate… fate for me to be here. Not just with you but…  _here_. I am scared, very, very scared, but…," I smiled at my partner, "I am now happy. Very, very happy." Yrsarald wrapped his arms around me again. "Very happy," I repeated.

"You make me very happy, too." We kissed again, and we did not stop kissing for many long, loving, bittersweet moments.

After my chin began to chafe from Yrsarald's beard, I had to put an end to our embrace. I then remembered I could probably heal the chafed skin, and I did. We both laughed, and kissed some more. I realized though that we had likely lost track of time, and pushed Yrsarald away. "Is there not something now?" I asked. "A feast, or… something, in honor of the dead?"

"Not until tonight."

"Oh," I said, turning to check the amount of light coming in from the window. Satisfied that we still had some time to kill, I continued our previous conversation about last wishes. "Why do you want to be burned when you die?"

"It was tradition with my family. But, I just like the idea. It is the old way, to be burned. The Nords' ancestors in Atmora could not bury their dead. The ground was frozen, like it is here a lot of the time. So, they just burned them. I suppose I also like the idea of my soul being sent up to the sky in smoke, and my ashes being returned to the earth. But, yes, I understand what you said – not wanting to remain. I sometimes hope that my soul will just… go away after I die. But," he sighed, "I may not have a choice."

"No choice?"

Yrsarald didn’t look at me. “When I die, my soul will likely go to _Hafirstek’s_ realm in Oblivion.”

I blinked. I blinked again. “What?”

“All werebeasts go to him when they die.” He finally looked at me, the frown lines around his mouth creased deeply.

“To who? In Oblivion?” I bit my lip. “A Daedra?”

Yrsarald nodded. “ _Hafirstek_. His realm is a hunting ground.”

“A _hunting_ ground?”

“Yes,” he answered plainly as he stood from the bed. He then walked over to his dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out a box. “It isn’t my choice,” he continued. “It isn’t anyone’s choice. Anyone who is like me, who can change into an animal or a man-beast, is… owned by _Hafirstek_.” He then walked with the box over to the bed and sat down, resting his back against his pillow and headboard.

I was bewildered. “Why does he own you? Does that mean Meridia owns me!?”

"I don't know. Perhaps." Yrsarald's frown remained. "But, you are also Dragonborn, so… you will probably go to Sovngarde."

Sovngarde. Otherwise known as heaven, but from what I'd learned about it, Sovngarde sounded a lot like Folkvangr, the Norse version of the Summerland; it even boasted its own Valhalla, called  _Vurmund_. I wasn't quite sure if I understood the belief correctly, but from what I'd been told by friends and by Yrsarald, everyone dreamt of living their afterlife in Sovngarde, but only the truly valiant ended up there, or at least stayed there permanently. The souls of the ordinary were reincarnated, or spent their afterlife in Oblivion, which was not always like my world's concept of hell.

"Yrsa," I whispered as I sat up, facing him, trying not to cry, "does this mean that we… we won't…." I couldn't finish the sentence. It wasn't possible. I refused to believe his words as truth. When I died I would either cease to exist or would be with Yrsarald forever whenever he died. Those were the only two acceptable options.

I felt warm, large hands cup my face and I was urged to look Yrsarald in his eyes. "Do not think about that, honeybee." He gave me a quick, soft kiss before placing the box on my lap.

I whimpered, but tried my best to put the future out of my mind. "What is this?" I asked, indicating the box.

"This… was going to be your birthday gift. I thought, though, after yesterday…." Yrsarald's words trailed off and I felt his fingers play with tresses of my hair. "I just couldn't wait, and I thought we could both use something nice, you know?"

I fought off my impending tears and turned to the wooden box. The top slid open, held by grooves on the inside walls. The box contained a book and something wrapped in cloth. I set aside the cloth-wrapped object and examined the book first, because I had a feeling Yrsarald would have written an inscription inside. The binding was simple red leather with no gold inlay or embossing of any kind. I opened the cover to find a blank first page but, as expected, a note was written on the inside cover.

I read the note aloud. "'To the woman from another world: write down your story.'" I looked up to find Yrsarald blushing. "My story?" I asked him.

"Yes. How you came here, and why. I made this note months ago. I hid it from you." He smiled, but the smile quickly vanished. "Now it seems you will have a longer story." He ran his fingers down the blank first page. "I should have bought two."

I took Yrsarald's hand in mine and squeezed, and then leaned forward to give him a big kiss. "Thank you," I whispered.

Yrsarald smiled, and nodded to my side. I had forgotten about the cloth-wrapped object. I set the book aside and unveiled the second gift.

It was a ring.

I choked on my own breath when I saw it. The simple, gold circle held enough power to temporarily stop my heart. When I looked closer, I saw that it was shimmering a pale blue.

"It… it's enchanted?" I asked Yrsarald.

"It is. With magic, like the necklace that Wuunferth gave you. I had him enchant this with the same spell. I think it is supposed to act like a potion, and help restore your magic when you wear it."

"Yes, that is exactly what the spell does." I picked up the ring and watched as the infused magic danced across the soft yellow surface. The ring was large, too large for my ring finger.

Yrsarald took the ring from me and proceeded to slip it onto my left thumb. "Wuunferth said that the left hand is the most receptive to magic, and that is why mages cast spells with their right."

"Yes, that is correct." I gazed at the object on my thumb and appreciated the rich glow as it reflected the light of the oil sconces as well as the natural light coming in from the windows. "Why my thumb?"

"Hmm? Oh, I supposed that is what this ring would fit on you. It's meant to fit my finger, after all." He smiled.

"Your finger? This is your ring?"

" _Was_ my ring, yes; a gift from my sister, long ago." He slipped the ring back off my thumb and tilted it so I could see the inside of the band. There was a faint, crude inscription, likely carved into the metal before the ring had been finished.

"It says 'Yrsa'," I said, turning to see the rest. "'Yrsa… bear'?" I turned to look at my partner. "It says 'Yrsa-bear'?"

The man chuckled. "It does." Yrsarald replaced the ring onto my thumb.

_Yrsa-Bear. Ursa, bear._ I stared, slack-jawed for a moment. "Then this is yours. Yrsa, I—"

"Yours, now," he cut me off with a smile, folding his fingers into mine. His other hand swept over my hair and brushed an unruly tress away from my face. "I thought, Champion of Meridia or simply a mage studying at the College, the ring would help you, and…." He cleared his throat and looked away from me; I could tell that he was attempting not to cry. Eventually he steeled himself enough look at me again. "And I thought that even in a small way, I could be with you, when you were not here with me."

I suddenly felt like my stomach had crawled up into my chest and was compressing my lungs. Tears were unavoidable as I made a sort of crying, choking sob and kissed Yrsarald with such force that we fell back onto the bed.


	5. The End of Normal

Our embrace was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Yrsarald and I sat up, laughing. "Come in," he said as he covered himself with a bedsheet.

Jorleif stepped into the doorway; a woman was behind him. The Steward cleared his throat. "Hermir is here to take Deborah's size. For the armor."

"Armor?" I shook my head. "I do not need armor. I have robes and a cloak and fur travel clothes and leather—"

"But do they all still fit you?" the steward asked.

"I…," I turned to my wardrobe. "Maybe. I don't know."

"Galmar wants you in armor," Jorleif said. " _Real_  armor. Made out of  _metal_."

I scoffed. "I cannot wear metal armor. I will not be able to move."

"You will learn," I heard a growl from the hallway. Galmar stepped into the doorway, moving between the steward and Hermir. "Trust me, Dragonborn, you will be thankful for it."

Hermir stepped further into my bedroom wielding some sort of white cloth rope that I supposed was meant to act as a measuring tape. "Oengul makes great armor, Deborah," the young, strong, and sad woman said. There were dark circles under her eyes; she had not slept well either, it seemed. "We will find something that fits you now, and again later if you change size. It will be free; Galmar is paying for it."

"And since you cannot leave for… a while," Galmar's shoulders sank a little, "you will have time to train in it."

I turned to Yrsarald, and then back to Hermir and Galmar. Groaning, I stood before Hermir. "Alright. Yes." I looked to Galmar. "I will be your shiny Dragonborn in metal armor."

. . . . . .

The funeral feast in honor of Ulfric was held at the palace, and another feast was provided for by the palace to be held in the Candlehearth inn. However, before either feast commenced, speeches were given in the courtyard in front of the palace. Helgird once again blessed the dead and dedicated the feasts to them, and then thanked the gods that the city had enough food for such feasts.

Jorleif, Galmar and Yrsarald then took opportunity of the small gathering at the palace to make some announcements. I noticed that only several Dark Elves and one High Elf was in attendance. Jorleif began by assuring the people that the marketplace would be cleaned and repaired soon, and the kiosks of the traders replaced. Any property or goods damaged by the dragon would be paid for or replaced, when possible, by the city. He then assured that the damaged building in the Grey Quarter would be repaired. Upon an elbow nudge from Yrsarald, Jorleif then added that any other buildings in the city in need of repair would also be seen to so that no further collapses would happen. I smiled, knowing full well that Yrsarald had finally convinced the steward or perhaps even Ulfric to set aside some money to go to the area in the city where most Dark Elves lived. Finally, Jorleif added that the families who lost someone in the dragon attack would receive some compensation from the palace funds.

The steward took a brief moment to let the information sink into the minds of the audience members. He then continued. "As you may well know, the title of Jarl usually passes from parent to child, sibling to sibling. Jarl Ulfric, unfortunately, had no children, and no siblings." I briefly wondered how a man with a female lover never had any children. "In the absence of an  _arverrek_ , and due to the current conflict with the Empire, whose Council of Elders would normally appoint a new Jarl, we had to resort to other means." The steward gave Yrsarald a quick glance. "Ulfric Stormcloak, aware of his lack of heirs, at the onset of this war worked with me in preparing for such an occasion." Yrsarald straightened his posture and took on an air of solemnity. The steward pulled out a rolled paper from under his cloak and opened it. A red wax seal had previously been broken open. "The last  _ervthask_  of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak stated that, upon his death and in the absence of any heirs, his brother-in-arms Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced would take his place as Jarl."

I gasped. Yrsarald gazed at me from across the small space; his expression was calm, and yet contrite.  _He knew!_  He knew what Ulfric's decision had been and yet he had failed to tell me. He also knew that I would be surprised by the news. I wondered if he actually thought that this would be a  _nice_  surprise for me, but his worried eyes told me otherwise.

The murmurs of the crowd grew louder.  _Yrsarald. Yrsarald!?_  They were as stunned as I was.

I watched my partner as his werebear sense no doubt smelled the mix of emotions coming from the people around him. He appeared somewhat embarrassed; perhaps he had never been in the spotlight before, or at least not since his days in the army. This was a lot for him to handle in not even two full days. His best friend was dead, and now Yrsarald had an entire city to run.  _No, not only a city,_ I reminded myself, _a war, too_. My stomach tightened into a knot in empathy for my lover, and from my own nerves.

As Yrsarald began talking to the crowd, my own thoughts drowned him out. Yrsarald was Jarl. I was Dragonborn and whatever else Meridia wanted me to be. Dragon words once again wafted through my mind, but I shook them away. I then wondered why the dragon voices came and went; I knew I would have to find out, eventually.

I wondered what all of these changes meant for me and Yrsarald. He and I had never really talked about it seriously, but we did want children someday. And, despite our relationship still being young in my opinion, I suspected the man wanted to marry me. A terrifying thought quickly shoved all others out of my mind: what if Yrsarald had to marry a Jarl's daughter, a princess, or something else that I most certainly was not?

I had missed Yrsarald's entire speech, and soon Jorleif was speaking again. He introduced Galmar, who talked about his plans to keep the fight to free Skyrim alive, and that just because Ulfric was dead did not mean that the Stormcloak army had to suddenly surrender. He declared that he would also find and kill the orc who killed Ulfric. His words were answered with cheers and applause from most people in the audience.

And then the bear-helmed soldier looked my way. I froze, worried he would draw attention to me. "As some of you witnessed yesterday in the marketplace, Deborah not only helped slay the dragon that took the lives of our citizens, she absorbed its soul."  _Shit._  "We believe the orc who took Ulfric's life to not be the  _only_  Dragonborn here in Skyrim. For this, we thank Talos. But, many of you did  _not_  witness the birth of a Dragonborn as I and Yrsarald did. Because of this, I would now ask Deborah to demonstrate the legendary Voice of the Dragonborn – the Shout – the gift of Kyne herself."

 _You goddamn bastard._  I realized my jaw was open and I quickly shut it. I could feel every pair of eyes on me; they weighed down my lungs. But there they were again, those dragon words murmuring inside my mind. I heard and understood the words.  _Yol. Laas. Fus._

 _Fus._ Force.

 _Yes,_ I thought,  _yes, Galmar, I will gladly demonstrate._  I recalled how I had last night whispered the word  _laas_  several times and had witnessed it effects. I wondered what would happen if I whispered  _fus._

But first, I wondered if I could breathe fire as the dragon had. Deciding it best not to test the word out on Galmar, I lifted my chin and looked at a cloud. " _Yol_ ," I said, somewhat loudly.

Nothing happened.

A little crestfallen, I decided to test that magic was indeed still working and shot forth a burst of fire from my palms up at the sky. I turned to the confused-looking crowd. "Just checking," I said with a brave face.

 _Goddamn Galmar._ I wanted to punch the man.  _Alright. They're called shouts. So, shout, damn it_. I continued to stare at the cloud and took in three long, deep breaths. After inhaling a fourth time, I screamed the same word as loudly as humanly possible.

To my surprise and shock, and likely everyone else's, a small burst of flames shot forth toward the unsuspecting cloud. I stared in awe as the ball of fire flew away, eventually fizzling out. I kept staring at the cloud I had aimed at. The white puff remained unharmed, but I had done it; I had breathed fire like a dragon and my lips were still intact. My throat hurt from the scream, however.

I lowered my gaze to Galmar; he looked utterly pleased with himself and I guessed with me, too. Everyone else appeared either ecstatic or terrified; there was no in-between. The crowd began to whisper –  _Dragonborn, Dragonborn_. I supposed they were right; I was Dragonborn.

I slowly stepped toward Galmar and reached out my hand to the old soldier, offering my forearm in a gesture of solidarity. He grasped it happily. I returned his grin, but was still internally cursing the man.

_Dragonborn._

_Dragonborn._

The dragon words were no longer swimming around in my head.

. . . . . .

I was surprised at how little of an appetite I had during Ulfric's funeral feast. I nibbled on braised arctic rabbit, steamed carrots and creamy mashed potatoes, and was still forced to forego any wine due to my breastfeeding.

Yrsarald, Galmar, various soldiers and the captain of the guards sat at the head of the banquet table and became very drunk very early in the evening. I was sitting near them, and their rambunctiousness was starting to annoy me. Bird had retired with Flavia a while ago, so I decided to go upstairs and join him and his daughter in a quieter evening. Marcurio was still gone, and I knew Bird could use the company, anyway.

"Is it common for people to get very drunk at a person's funeral feast?" I asked Bird once I was settled and comfortable next to him in his bed.

"Common for many Nords, yes, particularly in the north. Ancient custom, really. I think before mead was invented, the Nord's ancestors got drunk from the  _gekala_ milk of a mare, and then killed and roasted a mare at the funeral feast. We are encouraged to drink and eat, be happy, to honor the dead."

"'Gekala'," I repeated the word that I figured meant "fermented". I knew that fermented horse milk, kumis, was thought to have existed as an alcoholic drink for millennia on Earth, and I knew that it was almost as potent as moonshine. I also knew, second-hand, that kumis was about as disgusting as one would expect fermented milk might be. "Were the ancestors of Nords horse… keepers?"

" _Sekmiren_? Hmm, yeah, I think so. At least some, in some parts of Skyrim. They moved around a lot, taking their half-wild horses with them, drinking their milk and blood, eating their meat, using them to drag around their stuff, probably hunting and warring on them."

"We had people like that in my world. Perhaps we still do. I'm not sure…."

"Do you miss it? Your world. No Dragonborns or dragons, I suppose."

"Yes. No." I sighed. "The grass is always more green on the other side of the fence…."

Bird chuckled. "What does that mean?"

I turned to my friend. "Truly?"

"Truly what?"

"You do not know what that means?"

Bird shook his head.

"It means, no matter where you are or what you are doing or what you have or what you look like, you will always,  _always_  think that something else is better, or that you could have better, or that you could look better. Like, I will always want to be more thin and think other women have a better body than I do. I will always remember and miss the things I liked about my world that do not exist here. But when I was in my world, I always wondered if there was another, better world out there. I knew things could always be better. And, now I am in another world, and I still think that things could be better."

Bird just stared at me.

I waited for him to say something, and when he didn't, I asked, "What?"

He smiled. "Women…," he said, shaking his head.

"Women? Women what?" I asked as I playfully shoved his shoulder.

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

"This," he said, grabbing my left hand and examining my thumb.

"Oh, Yrsa's birthday gift to me."

"It is not your birthday yet."

"No, not yet."

"Is it a… special ring?" he asked with a roguish expression, complete with wagging eyebrows.

I laughed. "No, just a ring, enchanted with magic to help me." I spun it on my thumb. "It was his ring; that's why I have it on my thumb."

"I'm surprised it isn't on another finger…."

I glanced up at Bird. "Which finger?"

He held up his right hand and wriggled his own fingers, brandishing his gold wedding band on his index finger.

"We are not getting married," I declared.

"Not yet," Bird countered.

I narrowed my eyes at the man. "What do you  _know_?"

Bird chuckled. "Nothing, Deb. I just know he wants to. He probably wants to now more than ever before, knowing that," his mouth twitched downward a little, "that you won't be around as much anymore."

"I won't?"

"Probably not. You'll be Dragonborning all over the country."

"Dragonborning…."

Bird nodded. "Dragonborning." He smiled. "Hmph. Dragonborn Deborah. Jarl Yrsarald."

"Jarl Yrsarald," I repeated. I sighed, and spun my thumb ring around again. "He also gave me a book."

"Which book?"

I paused for a moment before answering. " _My_ book. He wants me to write down my story..."

Bird chuckled. "I guess you'll have to get better at writing our language, then," he teased.

I gave my friend a slow play-punch to the chest.

Eventually, after an hour or so of conversation and feeding Flavia one last time, Bird and I both fell asleep in his bed.

. . . . . .

"Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey…. Hey…. Hey…."

I awoke to being poked repeatedly on the sternum. Eventually it started to hurt, and my eyes reluctantly opened. I was at once face-to-face with Yrsarald; a single candle on the night table by me dimly lit his face.

"Yrsa?" I asked, quite literally needing confirmation. He stopped poking me.

"We drank 'll thuh mead," he said, and began poking my sternum again.

I grabbed his big finger and held it away from my stinging cartilage. "I can smell. What do you want? I was sleeping."

"I wan' thuh  _durvah-_ burn," he slurred.

"What?"

" _Durvah_ -burn. I want it. Want. It." The single candle illuminated his widening smile.

"Yrsa…," I groaned his name and rubbed my eyes. "Go to bed. You're very drunk."

"Mmhmm," was all he said before scooping me up into his arms, or at least attempting to; I was caught on the bedsheet. Yrsarald seemed confused by his inability to move me away from the bed and toward the doorway.

I whisper-screamed, "Put me down!"

"No, I wlllll save you!" he whisper-declared, and kept tugging me away from the bed only to be foiled by the bedsheet repeatedly. I had to untuck the thing from my legs for him. When I was freed, Yrsarald sounded a triumphant snicker, repositioned me so that my chest hung over his shoulder, and proceeded to steal me away into the night, giggling all the way to our bedroom.

. . . . . .

" _Ugh_."

I woke up to the sound of Yrsarald groaning. He had covered his face with the bedsheet.

"Why is the sun awake already?" he whined.

I giggled relentlessly. "How much mead is needed to get a man the size of a mountain drunk?" I slid closer to my partner and moved under the bedsheet with him; it was very warm from insulating his body heat. "How is your back?" I asked softly.

Yrsarald was rubbing his forehead. "My back?"

"Yes, your back. You hurt it after you picked me up last night. I am not a little person, you know."

"Little enough. I'm just getting old."

I laughed. "You are not old. Come here…." I threw off the bedsheet and urged Yrsarald to roll over onto his stomach, which he did after a short protest and series of groans. Sitting by his side, I pressed my hands to his lower back and released a small amount of healing energy. "Maybe some injuries need to be healed more than once."

Yrsarald grunted.

"Are you sure you do not want me to heal your head? I can. I have healed hangovers before."

He turned his head to the side against his pillow so he could speak. "It is not our way."

"That is what I thought you said last night. Not your way? You need to be hung-over? Why, because you are a man?" I asked, smiling.

"No, because I am a Nord, and Ulfric was a Nord." Yrsarald sighed. "Ulfric is dead. To drink to his name and then not experience the  _avlethingen_ after is not our way. We need to feel the pain, regret…."

I frowned. "We did not do this in Winterhold. Some people died…. We did not drink to them, not really. There were no laws for the funeral and after, I don't think." A moan of relief escaped Yrsarald's mouth once his lower back felt better. "For how long will you mourn? I mean, for how long must you not heal that pain, the pain from drinking?"

"Three days."

"Three days? But why?" I climbed on the man's massive thighs and smoothed my hands over his broad back, deciding to give him a massage. He loved my massages; of course the concept was not unknown to him and others in this world, but massages here were mainly for healing injuries or preventing them, not done simply to feel good.

"It is just our way." He groaned as my knuckles rocked and rotated up the sides of his spine from his buttocks to his neck. "Three days – well, nights – of funeral feasting and drinking." He exhaled slowly, deeply. "And then, I will be Jarl."

My hands froze momentarily. I continued the massage before speaking. "Why did you not tell me?" I asked, quietly, still sad about the temporary secret.

Yrsarald did not answer immediately. "I only found out after he died."

"But you could have told me, that night."

Again, he thought about his answer. "I didn't want you to say no."

"'No'…? Why would I say 'no'? Will I not like you being Jarl?" I swallowed the lump in my throat and asked the dreaded question. "Can we still be together when you are Jarl?"

"Hmm? Of course we can."

I breathed easier. "Then why would I say 'no'? Ulfric wanted you to replace him; I would not say no to that." Yrsarald stirred and turned onto his back beneath me. He laid his hands on my thighs and held me in place.

He looked sad. "We will both be busy, now."

"You have been busy since I have known you."

"Only because of the war." His hands moved up and down my thighs from waist to knee. "But now you will be gone. Again."

"Gone? Where will I go? To the camps?"

He sighed. "Yes, but, also… High  _Hrothgar_."

"High what?"

" _Hrothgar_. A  _vig_  on a mountain, far from here."

"A what? On a mountain?"

" _Vig_. Big, stone building, like a palace but bigger, stronger. The Greybeards live there. They will train you."

I stared down at Yrsarald in silence for a moment. "Like Talos?"

Yrsarald swallowed hard. "Like Talos." His hands traveled up my body to land on each side of my face and they then pulled me down, longing for a kiss. Satisfied, he let up his grip and gazed at me for a moment. He spoke softly. "You belong to the gods, now."

"No," I protested, shaking my head. "I belong to you, and to my friends, to  _me_. This will not change."

"It  _has_  changed," he said. "But, perhaps it was always meant to be this way, why you are here. It isn't just Meridia who wants you."

" _I_  want  _you_."

Yrsarald smiled. "You already have me. But for now," his thumbs caressed my cheeks, "for now, you must go be a hero. Save the world from whatever darkness Meridia has seen while I and Galmar try to win this war."

I slid to Yrsarald's side and held him tight. "I cannot leave until Flavia no longer has need of me, or until I can no longer feed her."

"I know."

"Does Galmar truly want to show me to the troops? Like a… shiny, pretty thing?"

Yrsarald chuckled. "Yes. And you should go, when you can, before going to High Hrothgar. You may have to stay on that mountain for a long time, I don't know. Ulfric did…."

My sigh was lengthy and pronounced with a whine. "I suppose I have no choice."

"You always have a choice, Deborah, but in this case, denying the gods and what they intend for you may be the wrong choice."

I silently twirled a finger in his thick chest hair for a while. "Is everyone frightened?"

"Frightened? Of what?"

"What to do now."

"Now. Now that Ulfric is dead?"

"Yes."

"Well, some are, I suppose. We are doing our best to stay ahead of the Empire."

"Will the Empire… attack?"

"Attack!? No, no. They would not attack the city." He paused a moment. "At least we do not think they would."

"Why would they not?"

"Because the leader of the Rebellion is dead. When the Empire learns this, they will assume we will surrender. They have no reason to attack. And the city is still full of guards; we are not defenseless."

Twirl. Twirl. Running my fingers through his chest hair was like petting a dog or cat – utterly relaxing. "What is this war truly fought for by the Empire: to kill Ulfric for killing that king, or to keep Skyrim a part of the Empire?"

"Both. Ulfric was wanted for murder by Jarl Elisif of Solitude, King Torygg's wife. He would have been hunted by Imperial soldiers, war or no war. But we still desire to separate Skyrim from the Empire, for many reasons. The Empire wants this land, so the Rebellion lives."

"I suppose I should let you go to work, then." I propped myself on my elbows and kissed Yrsarald. "How is your head now? Better?"

Yrsarald smiled. "I shall live." He then pulled me back down for more cuddling. "It is early, yet. Let the men rest a while longer. I believe you wanted to talk…."

I frowned. "There are many things…."

"You should write a list."

"Hmph _._ " I stared at Yrsarald's mostly-hidden tattoo. "Are you very sad?" I kissed his chest and held him tighter.

Yrsarald was silent for a moment. "Yes."

"You have lost your soldier-brother. Was he your closest friend?"

"Yes, for a long time." Yrsarald's hand smoothed down my back. "I believe I have found a new closest friend, though."

I gave a little laugh and kissed his collarbone. "I worry for you. When I go, I worry you will be lonely and still sad for Ulfric, and I won't be here to hold you."

Yrsarald cleared his throat. "I am used to being lonely."

"Oh, Yrsa…." My heart hurt for the man; I couldn't  _not_  kiss him. I cupped his cheeks with my palms, and he covered my hands with his.

"It is fine, Deborah. Truly. My life has been so busy for the last thirty years."

"Thirty…. Since the Great War?"

Yrsarald nodded.

My frown deepened. "Before me, when was the last time…? You said there was someone, once."

I noticed a tiny wince before Yrsarald forced a sad smile. "That ended… I think maybe fifteen, sixteen years ago. She was a guard who later joined the Stormcloaks." His sad smile became one of contentment. "The gods helped me over the years."

"The gods? How?"

"After my sister's death, after I hid in that cave, I began to pray more. I prayed a lot, actually. I made relaxing teas that not only helped with my anger, they made me very calm. That tea I drink every morning,  _canis_ root tea, it helps me no longer change when…." He appeared as if he was fighting off a bought of tears. "If I did not have that tea every morning, I would have changed when Ulfric was killed." The strained look on his face calmed. "I found peace and comfort in prayer. Connecting with the earth made me very calm. Food and training also helped with…," he chuckled, "well, urges of all kinds. But then you came, and then left, and nothing helped. I became a mess."

I grinned. "I remember. When I came back, you looked… like you had lost a battle with your hair."

Yrsarald laughed. "It is true. I just...," he shook his head. "It was awful. Nothing helped. A lot of food made it somewhat better, but not truly."

"I hope it will not be the same when I leave again."

"No, it won't. This time, you know how I feel about you, and I know you will return to me. The gods will not let you die."

We kissed again, sweet and soft, save for Yrsarald's tickling beard. I caressed his stubbly cheek for a while, simply gazing upon him. I then remembered something I wanted to ask him. "So… Hermir and Ulfric?"

"Mm. Hermir and Ulfric. She adored him. He… well, he let her."

"Let her? Ulfric did not love Hermir?"

"No. I don't think Ulfric was able to love anyone, not truly."

"What do you mean, not able to love? Why not?"

Yrsarald sighed. "With everything that happened to Ulfric during the war, while he was held by the Thalmor…. He didn't speak much about it, but over the years I learned pieces of his past. They tortured him, did... things." Yrsarald squirmed. "After, Ulfric had bad dreams often, and sometimes became lost in his thoughts. Galmar one night heard screams from Ulfric's bedroom. He ran up to find Ulfric strangling a woman. She lived, but…. It was a long time before Ulfric trusted himself to take another lover. It didn't really matter, since Ulfric had trouble… you know…."

"Ohhh…. From the bad memories? The torture?"

"Yes. His body stopped working properly. Anyway… he said that Hermir was different. And, since she was so strong from working the forge, she was able to defend herself when Ulfric's mind slipped into the past and he attacked her."

"He attacked her and she stayed with him?"

Yrsarald shrugged. "Everyone is different in how they love. I think Hermir understood that it was not him, it was not Ulfric that attacked her, but the monster inside of him that his bad memories created."

I had to figure that Hermir was either brave or crazy. "What did the Thalmor do to Ulfric to make him so… well, like you said, he had a monster inside him."

"The High Elf that tortured him, Elenwen, did 'disgusting' and 'spirit down-afflicting' things to him. That is all I know."

"'Spirit down afflicting'?"

"Hmm… she tried to break Ulfric by humiliating him."

"Oh. I think I understand. From what you say, I think Ulfric had what in my world we call 'after bad things stress'." Post-traumatic stress disorder. I doubted Skyrim had counselors for such things. "I suppose he never was healed of it."

"No, I suppose not. Hermir helped, it seemed, though."

"I find it strange that I never, not once, saw Hermir or any other woman in the palace. Not with Galmar, either."

Yrsarald chuckled lightly. "You would not have seen a woman with Galmar. He has been without one for many years now, and is quite happy about it. And Hermir, when she came here, she disguised herself as a guard. She was good at not letting anyone see."

"Hmph." With the guards' helms offering full coverage of the face, it would indeed be impossible to identify someone unless they took it off, and on-duty guards always kept them on. My fingers danced in Yrsarald's chest hair for a while longer. "Still no sign of the orc?"

"No. Nothing."

"Why did he kill Ulfric?"

"We don't know."

"Do you have a guess?"

"No. The orc was in armor we did not recognize. He was not likely in the Imperial army, but his kin may be. The orc is Dragonborn, and perhaps was… I don't know, jealous of Ulfric. Threatened by him." Yrsarald sighed. "Ulfric had to have done something to the orc, the orc's family, friends… someone."

"Maybe during the Great War?"

"Perhaps. But the orc looked too young to have fought during the war. And we fought alongside the orcs…." His arm tightened around me. "That is what worries me most. There is just no reason. He was angry at you because, I suppose, he wanted the dragon's soul for himself. But then, the orc heard Ulfric's name and that is what made him explode."

My fingers grazed lightly down Yrsarald's faintly-freckled arm. "I will find out. I will find the orc, and I will find out why."

Yrsarald's muscles tightened for a moment. "Perhaps you are the only one who can stop him. Dragonborn."

"But… I am not like the orc. He is bigger than even you."

"No, but you are Dragonborn. For whatever reason, the gods made two."

"When I was brought here, Meridia said they re-made me." I wrapped Yrsarald's arm around me. "They re-made me as a Child of Akatosh. Savos Aren, the Arch-Mage, says I was born to be a mage."

"More than a mage. You were brought here to be Dragonborn. Perhaps… perhaps brought here to find that orc."

"I  _will_  find him."

"You need to learn how to be Dragonborn, first."

"Learn how? How do I learn how? I already am."

"The Greybeards will make you better, stronger. Do not go looking for the orc until you train with them. Do you remember the earth-shake? The orc may have already trained with the Greybeards…. They must have been calling him, all those months ago. I cannot think of what would happen if you found that orc before," he sighed, "before at least training a little."

I felt his muscles tense again. I turned on my side and stretched out my arm over his torso and held him tight. "Do not think about that. I am still here. I will be here for as long as I have to be for Flavia. For you, and for me." I began to fight off tears. "I don't want to go, but, I will, when I can." The threat of tears faded and I continued. "Did Wuunferth tell you about Meridia's light?"

"No. Was he supposed to?"

"No. I… found a special rock in the Butcher's house, the day the dragon came. Before the dragon attacked, I picked up the rock from a box in the house and had visions. Meridia sent me the visions. I saw soldiers fighting inside her temple. Wuunferth helped me understand. The temple is in… I think he said 'Haafingar'."

"It is."

"There is something evil there, and Meridia wants me to find it. Or fight it. Stop it. Wuunferth says I should pray to her to find answers from her, but I haven't yet."

"So, it is starting."

"It is." We lay together in silence again for a short while, but questions were still nagging at my brain. "Yrsa, why did you not tell me about the dream?"

"Which dream?"

"The one with Ulfric and the glowing circle."

He tensed again. "You read my dream journal?"

"Yes, but only because it fell from your night table the morning after Ulfric died. It fell open to that page. You dreamt it after he died, didn't you?"

Yrsarald was silent for a moment, but eventually answered. "Yes. My dreams always feel real, like I am truly there in the dream place, but this one… this one was the most real."

"The place is called Saarthal."

"Saarthal? Wait, the—isn't that where you were? I heard Wuunferth and Ulfric discuss it once."

"Yes, I was there, and I saw the circle. I heard the sound it made, too. Something  _was_  missing. A friend of mine, Elodie, survived an attack there. Whoever killed our friends, and her wife, stole something. Last I heard no one knew what was taken, but Wuunferth says it is Mage Council business and I do not need to worry about it."

"Then he is likely right."

I sighed. "Do you think Ulfric showed you the dream?"

"Yes," he answered immediately.

I then heard the sound of something scratching against wood. I pushed myself up on my arms to look to my right, toward Yrsarald's wardrobe and dresser. "Did you hear that?" I turned to Yrsarald, and then back to the wardrobe. I sat up in the bed and immediately cast the spell I had learned to detect life. My hand lit up with an orb of purple magic.

"What's that?" Yrsarald asked.

"Life detection."

"Why?"

"People can be invisible." Yrsarald waited in silence. A moment later, I stopped casting the spell. "There is no one here." Unsatisfied, I cast the spell I had learned to detect the dead or undead. My right hand again glowed from the blue light of the spell. There was nothing by the wardrobe or the dresser. I kept casting the spell and looked around the room.

When I turned around, I screamed.


	6. The Other Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, dear readers! I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season full of your favorite holiday things! NOW GET BACK TO WORK. Heh. I myself have been trying to be a good grad student and working more, and while I know you guys crave faster updates, once-a-week posts have been allowing me to take care of the, well, "real" parts of my life. I have five more chapters already written, which is really good because this also means I can go back and polish the chapters before they're posted.

"What? What do you see?" Yrsarald moved instinctively in front of me; I was admittedly terrified, and let him protect me.

The blue shimmering fog floating to the side of our bed became dense and took the form of a human. The result of the spell was visible only to the caster, and only momentarily. I cast the spell again, and again the blue fog took form. I felt my heart beating fast and hard to match the pace of my breath, my blood pressure likely peaking from the panic that was spreading through my body.

"Deborah…," Yrsarald whispered. "What is it? I see nothing."

I didn't answer; I couldn't – my breathing was too rapid. But I did find the strength to whisper a single world. " _Laas_." The figure turned a shimmering, foggy red. The simple dragon word required no energy to voice, whereas the detection magic was incredibly draining; I knew that I would be uttering this little whisper-word often in the future. The fog then dissipated and did not take form again. Whatever had been detected was now gone.

Instinctively or perhaps a reaction from years of training, Yrsarald wasted no more time in pulling on some trousers and reaching for the large axe he kept above the dresser. I, however, remained paralyzed and naked on the bed, wondering where the shape I had seen had gone.

"Deborah!" Yrsarald demanded my attention, or perhaps answers.

"It is gone," I said, beginning to calm down.

"What was it?"

I took a deep breath. "I don't know."

"You whispered a word. Was it a Shout?"

"Yes." I turned to Yrsarald. "It shows me alive things… and, I suppose, dead things. Tell me if you see…." I whispered the dragon word again. Yrsarald's form immediately glowed bright red, as did mine. "Do you see?"

"No. What should I see?"

I sighed. "Life. You should see life…."

A furious knock sounded at the door. "Yrsarald, Deborah, is everything alright?" I supposed it was a guard, but I didn't recognize the voice.

"Yes, thank you!" I replied quickly and loudly, praying the guard didn't come in uninvited with me still stark naked on the bed. I quickly slid to my feet and threw on my dressing robe.

Yrsarald turned to me again. "What were the spells you cast?" he asked.

"Life. Death. Both work like the word I whispered. The 'shout'. But only I see…."

"And what did you see?

"A person. A ghost, maybe."

"Ghost?" Yrsarald stared a moment before replacing he axe on the wall. He then pulled on a tunic and removed his trousers in order to slip on a loincloth first.

I sat on the bed, truly hoping I was wrong. Yrsarald finished dressing and walked over to me. His hand smoothed down my mussed hair before he gave me a kiss. "You're alright?"

I nodded.

"Good." He kissed me again. "Come down, soon. You should be with me and Jorleif as we work…." He smiled and turned to go, but stopped only a step away from me.

"Yrsa?"

Silence.

I stood from the bed and ran my hand down his clothed back, half-hugging him as I moved to his side to see what had stopped him in his tracks. When I saw it, I halted too.

The form before us was wavering – unstable and translucent, but it was there, this time not as a red fog. I took a step in front of Yrsarald.

"Deborah…," he tried to hold me back.

"It is fine, Yrsa."

The form steadily became more and more solid. Leather armor. Long, dark-brown hair. Green eyes. Thin, toned body. Slightly curved hips.

. . . . . .

" _That's a troll den. Vicious creatures. Garthek pays his men to bring him their heads and other parts. Men pride themselves on hunting and killing them, keep their skulls as trophies. You know, I never really figured out why. Their skulls are big and useless, but I think men believe it impresses women, or something. But there's some alchemic use for their… uh… genitals. Just the males, obviously. But also their fat, the fat from any troll. Not only great for candles, but Virelle uses them for some potion. Dunno what, though. I never did get the hang of that alchemy crap. Garthek is convinced, though, that ingesting dried troll cock makes him, uh… well, fuck like a troll, I guess. But really he kinda fucks like a horker. You're so fucking lucky Thrynn claimed you, ugh…. Why are you picking up that dead man's skull? Divines above, you're weird…... Oh, shit. Those idiots are watching us. Figures. I bet they think we're gonna fuck in this troll den. I hate men, sometimes."_

. . . . . .

I nearly choked on my own breath, and barely managed the whisper. "Siv?"

"Ah, Thrynn's woman!" the form spoke.

"It  _is_ you…." I stepped closer to Siv's apparition.

"You have learned our language, finally." Siv smiled. I stood close enough to touch her, but I didn't dare.

"Who is this?" Yrsarald stepped up to my side. "Who is Thrynn?"

"Oh, Sweet Mother, look at this one…." Siv's apparition faltered a little, but solidified again. "He's a big  _butti_  of juicy meat, isn't he…."

"Siv!"

"What?" she shrugged. "I'm a ghost, not  _dead_."

"Siv…," I was at a loss for words. "How…?"

"How are you seeing me?" she asked. "Good question." She began to float-walk around the room, slowly, as if giving herself a tour. "One moment I was wasting away my afterlife in a foggy, grey nothing-land, bored to tears unless I was running away from some smelly monster thing with glowing eyes, or other outlaws or crazy rapists or murderers, and the next moment I was back in Skyrim, but, a ghost." She turned back to me. "I had returned to that road in The Pale, where I died." She float-stepped up to me. "Died saving  _you._ "

"What?" I heard Yrsarald ask.

"Siv, I—"

"Listen! Something is not right. I was not where I was supposed to have been when I died, and I should not be here, now. I don't want to be a ghost, Deborah.  _Hja_ —" Siv's apparition disappeared before she had a chance to finish whatever she was going to say.

' _Hja—'?_ I thought to myself _. 'Hjalp'? Help her?_ It made more sense than  _hjalm_ , "helm", or any other similar-starting Norren word I knew.

Several moments passed before anyone said anything.

"What the fuck was that!?" Yrsarald broke the silence with a frantic yell.

I was taken aback, unsure if I had ever heard him use such strong language before. He even appeared angry, face flushed. "That was Siv, a friend. Sort of." I was somewhat in shock. "I cannot believe ghosts exist…."

"Sort of? Who is Thrynn!?"

"Calm down, Yrsa."

"Calm…. Calm!? A ghost just now appeared before both of us calling you someone else's woman and asking you to help her and I am supposed to remain calm!?" The laugh that escaped his lungs was not one of amusement.

"I am  _not_ Thrynn's woman," I spat back at my partner. "I was  _never_ his. He saved my life when I came to this world and that is all. I then saved his life. I learned this language from him before he  _left_  me, pregnant, just before I was taken to Helgen!"

Yrsarald stood frozen, silent, and then his shoulders sank. "Pregnant?"

I groaned and fell back onto the bed. "Yes. Thrynn made me pregnant. But that did  _not_  make me  _his_. We just…. It was a long, cold winter in a cabin in nowhere. I had no place to go except the college, but I did not know the language, so, I stayed with him until spring. Then, he was just gone."

"He left you pregnant?"

"Don't worry; the gods took the baby away. Meridia told me. They knew I did not want his baby."

I felt Yrsarald sit down on the bed and heard him sigh. He was quiet for a while after that. He then lay next to me and propped himself up on an elbow. His hand caressed my cheek and urged me to look at him. "Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Siv. Thrynn. All of it. You told me you were held by outlaws. These were them? But then they saved your life? Why would her ghost appear to you?"

I frowned. I didn't want to tell the tale yet again, but I knew Yrsarald should know everything about me, if he so desired. Even Wuunferth knew more than Yrsarald did regarding my past with the outlaws. I looked my partner in the eyes, and began.

"The cave I fell into from my world was an outlaw hideout. Their leader wanted to kill me, but I later learned that Thrynn saved me. Meridia said that Dibella had whispered to him, I think…. Anyway, he saved me, kept me as safe as he could. I should have trusted him, but…. I thought I was still in my world, and that those people were… strange. I didn't trust any of them. Meridia later told me that Thrynn misheard my name as Dibella, and when he was confused and terrified because he thought he had captured a goddess, I ran. I should not have run; I knew this, but I did it anyway. I ran into a troll and it almost killed me. It broke one of my ribs, and then the outlaws killed it. But the outlaws were not trying to save me…. They like trolls. Or, like killing them. I don't know. That is when one of the bad outlaws, not Thrynn or his friends, raped me."

Yrsarald jolted up in bed as if electrocuted, his face immediately turning red with rage. " _Raped_  you!?"

I gently laid my palm against his chest, willing him to calm down. My hand slid behind his head and my fingers clutched onto his long hair. "I lived, Yrsa. I am fine. It happened, but for only a moment. Soon after the man entered me, I… felt lightning inside my body, and then, the first time ever, cast lightning magic at the men who had held my arms. I think I killed them, but I am not certain. I didn't know what happened to me, didn't know that it was magic. Thrynn was the one who first told me to go to the college." I frowned, remembering the day Thrynn rebelled. I lay back down, and Yrsarald followed. "A while after I was raped, things were alright, because Thrynn and his friends protected me. But, one day, we went north. I realized that those people truly were outlaws who killed for money. But, that day, Thrynn and his friends refused to murder women and children for the outlaw leader. They fought each other. I think I would have died, but Siv took an axe in the back for me, and I would have been…," I cringed at the all-too-vivid memory. "The leader and his friend, they kicked me. I was broken. The leader put his sword…," I reached my hand down, remembering where the scars had been before being healed away, "his sword cut me, up my legs. I thought he would have… I thought he might…." I shook my head. "But Thrynn killed him. Killed him before he could hurt me more. After, he put me on a horse and we rode fast to nowhere. Somewhere snowy, west of the river that goes to here from the south. We stayed in a cabin until spring, when he left. Yes, Thrynn and I had sex. Not very many times, but..." I sighed. "And that is all. I left the cabin, too, and then the Imperials got me. I don't know who or what they thought I was because I could not understand them and they told Ralof nothing, but they were following Ulfric and Ralof, and I found the Imperials. They didn't like that…. So I was taken to Helgen with Ulfric, Ralof and the others. And then I stayed with Ralof and his family for three months. And then I came here."

"You…," Yrsarald began, tentative with his words, "you have been through a lot. Much more than I knew."

"I am sorry I didn't tell you everything, but… it did not feel necessary. Now, though…," I turned to my side and smiled down at my man, "I want you to know all. My past is not a secret, not from you. Soon everyone will know me…. I want  _you_  to know the  _real_  me." I leaned forward to give him a quick kiss. "If I am Dragonborn, if I am Meridia's champion, then as you say, I belong to the gods. But not all of me – just my actions." A rogue tear escaped each of my eyes and Yrsarald quickly kissed them away. His lips were soon pressed against mine. I felt wetness on my cheek and realized he too was crying.

We then lay there together, entwined for a long time, simply listening to one another breathe. I thought I dozed off for a short while, prompted by his warmth and his steady heartbeat. When our mutual cuddle quota had been filled, I began to dress for the day.

"We should tell Wuunferth that we saw a ghost." I tied my college robe around me. "It might be important. Or… are ghosts a normal thing here?"

Yrsarald shook his head. "No, it is not normal to see a ghost. I had never seen one before. You can talk to Wuunferth," he said. "I have to go see Jorleif, and I think Galmar wanted to leave for the camps this morning."

"Do you not think you should hear what Wuunferth says?"

"You can tell me, later."

I let out a sigh.

"What?"

I walked up to my partner and wrapped my arms around his neck. "Will things be very different now that you are Jarl? I suppose you will be very busy."

"I will, but… you will be busier."

I failed to hide my frown.

. . . . . .

I was calmed by Wuunferth's unwavering neutral expression. "You are not surprised…."

"No, Deborah. I have been seeing ghosts for months."

"Months? Who have you seen?"

"Family, ancestors…. And, yes, I believe something is happening that is allowing ghosts to appear. It is not unheard of – ghosts appearing – but it is unusual. I have also noticed an increase in the power of my spells and enchantments. Have you not noticed the same?"

"No…? I thought I was just getting better…. Or perhaps the necklace you gave me made it stronger. You think something is being done? What?"

"I don't know. Necromancy, or…," he shook his head. "I don't know, but stronger magic suggests a stronger link to Aetherius, whatever that means…."

I bit my lip. "Perhaps now is a good time to pray to Meridia."

"Yes, I believe it may be."

I returned to my room and opened the cloth pouch in which I had placed Meridia's rock. I stared at the opaque, edged surface for a moment, wondering if I would be given visions again. Instead of reaching in and pulling out the rock, I deposited it on the center of the bed. I sat cross-legged in front of it, staring down at it, wondering how to proceed.

I figured I'd try various things until it worked. I held my palms on either side of the rock, several inches away, and stared. "Meridia?" I called. Nothing happened. I sighed, and decided perhaps really getting into it and meditating might help.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and pressed my fingers to the stone.

" _Finally, my Champion realizes her fate."_

"What?" The voice had come from inside my head, or at least I thought it did. The voice was strong and feminine, and spoke English. The stone, once cold and opaque, had become warm and translucent. Waves of shadow and light swirled within it.

" _I trust you received the visions I sent you."_

 _Yes,_  I thought, figuring she could hear my inner voice.

" _No, keep speaking the language of the Nords; it is good for you,_ and I shall do the same." She switched to Norren mid-sentence.

"Oh, alright. I… ehh… can others hear you?"

"No, Champion, only you. With my Light, we will be able to communicate when necessary. But for now, listen and listen well. As you have realized, the visions were of my temple. For a long time, too long, a powerful necromancer who calls himself Malkoran has been luring men and women from opposing armies into my temple where they slaughter one another. Malkoran then uses their angry souls to build his army of ghosts. You, my Champion, must go there and put an end to the  _krofton_ that has invaded my temple before Malkoran destroys my  _heila_   _tholet_ with his dark magic. Do this, and restore my temple to its  _fyra moro._ "

"Ehh… I did not understand the last things you said. Evil invaded your temple? What is Malkoran destroying? What is 'fyra moro'?"

Meridia was silent for a moment and I thought she had left, but her voice returned to my head. " _Corruption_ ," she said in English. " _Corruption has invaded my temple. Malkoran is using my artifact to increase his power over the souls of the dead. Once he and his army of ghosts are vanquished, only then can my temple once again house those who wish to worship me._ "

"Oh. And… how am I to fight this evil?" I continued speaking to Meridia, or, rather, the rock in my hands, in Norren as she had suggested. "I am not powerful."

"But you will be! You are Dragonborn, blessed by Akatosh himself. It is necessary for you to go to High Hrothgar, to train as Dragonborn. Only then will you be able to do what you were brought here to do."

"And after I… clean your temple, then what? What else do you and the gods need from me?"

"You will save the world, Champion. You will know what that means when the time comes."

I sighed. "Do ghosts have something to do with saving the world? What about Saarthal?"

"Yes, Champion. Something is breaking the walls between worlds. You experienced this the last time we spoke. I did not risk communicating with you that way again for your own safety. You must stay away from Hermaeus Mora. He will lead to nothing but destruction."

I shivered at the memory of my first and only interaction with the tentacled Daedra. "So, I truly am Dragonborn, then…."

"Yes, Champion."

"And the orc? He is Dragonborn as well?"

"Yes. Torug was fated to be Dragonborn before he was born. You, however… in you we saw a hope that was lost in Torug long before the portals began to open. Torug himself has long been  _kroft_ ; we fear what he may do with the power Akatosh has given him."

"Torug…." The name of Ulfric's murderer was at once seared into my brain. "Why does Akatosh not take back the power that he gave to Torug?"

"As I have said before – even Akatosh is not all-powerful. But even  _kroft,_ Torug has things he alone must do; tasks he was  _born_  to do. His end will come, when it is time."

"Where is he now, the orc?"

"Do  _not_  go looking for him, Champion. He will destroy you and anyone with you before you raise a finger. You will have your revenge, in time. First, you must train."

I nearly growled in disappointment. "How soon must I leave here? Go to High Hrothgar? I have a baby to feed."

"Soon, Champion, soon. For now, you must prepare your mind as well as your body. Be ready."

"Alright…."

Silence. Meridia was gone. I thought about what she had said, that I had to prepare my mind as well as my body; that I had to train. I supposed this meant I needed to stop being scared shitless, and that I had to lose the weight I had regained during my pregnancy and get in shape. I also wondered if now would be a good time to learn how to conjure—

" _Woah_..." A surge of heat and fullness pulsed through my body, causing a sudden wave of pleasure as if someone had just cracked every vertebra my back. The sensation wasn't exactly orgasmic, but it was close. It was an endorphin rush. I felt a little dizzy, and then the sensation faded as quickly as it had set in. I then felt incredibly hungry.

I gently placed Meridia's Light into its sack and then trotted down to the kitchen to grab something to eat.

. . . . . .

"I spoke with Meridia," I said to Wuunferth and Yrsarald later that day in my room where I had asked them both to meet me.

"You did?" Wuunferth asked. "What did she tell you?"

"She said… that I need to go to her temple to fight a necromancer named," I bit my lip, trying to remember, "Malkoran. He… made unclean her temple, and he is using Meridia's power to make his magic more powerful. He is capturing ghosts for his army."

"Army!?" Yrsarald was surprised by the concept, or perhaps terrified.

I nodded. "But she wants me to go to High Hrothgar first. I am not powerful enough yet."

Wuunferth walked up to me, a curious look on his face. "Did you say 'Malkoran'?" One of his bushy eyebrows arched, as if he suspected I was lying.

"Yes. That is the name Meridia gave to the necromancer."

The old mage shook his head, and then walked out of my room. I stared at the empty, open doorway. "Why did he leave?" I turned to Yrsarald. "Who is Malkoran?"

My partner shrugged. "I don't know. What else did Meridia tell you?"

"That… I and the orc are Dragonborn. The orc's name is Torug. She said he is…," I sighed, having trouble remembering the words, "corrupt. She said he will be stopped, but not now. I cannot. He is too powerful, she said. And he has things he must do."

"Did she say where he was?" Yrsarald asked. "Why he killed Ulfric?"

"No. She said to not look for him. He will kill us, if we do. Maybe she knows there will be a time when he is weak…." I frowned. "I did not ask about Ulfric."

Yrsarald sighed, and then wrapped his arms around me.

"She also said," I continued, still enveloped by my partner's lumberjack arms, "that the ghosts are… connected to something that is happening between worlds. The walls are breaking, I think she said."

"So that is why Ulfric has been in my dreams."

I nodded. "I think so, yes. And Siv's ghost, here. Ulfric must be a ghost, too." A thought hit me, then. "Maybe it was Ulfric who made me notice your journal, Yrsa. He wanted me to know. There is something about Saarthal, or… or about what was taken from there. What Elodie was told to find."

"Elodie?" Yrsarald asked. "Your friend from the College?"

"Yes. She survived and was…," I sighed, irritated at my tendency to forget Norren words when stressed. "She was upset. She saw something. Marc said she has been working with Savos Aren and the Mage's Council as well as some people called the Psijics."

"Psijics?" Yrsarald asked.

"Psijics," I confirmed. "Elodie would not talk about it, and Wuunferth says it is not our business."

Yrsarald scratched his scruffy cheek. "And all of this has to do with Saarthal?"

"What was taken from there, yes, I think so."

"And Ulfric knows something…." Yrsarald was deep in thought, then, I noticed. A moment later, he admitted to himself, "Ulfric is a ghost."

"Ulfric's ghost knows something about Saarthal," I concluded.

Yrsarald looked to me, frowning deeply. "We need to speak with Ulfric's ghost."


	7. In Between

I stared at the tiny black glass vial that Wuunferth had set in front of me. "Like the portal potion?" I asked.

"Yes, exactly like the portal potion," Wuunferth answered.

"How does it work? The portal potion did not work…. Or, well, there was no portal anymore…."

"Whoever drinks the potion can see into the in-between. That is where the ghosts are. The portal potion is an old mixture that Savos discovered during the Third Era. It allowed the drinker to see links, or portals, to Oblivion and other worlds."

"Are ghosts from Oblivion?" I asked.

"They can be. Aetherius, too. They can also be here, in Mundus, but… not. In all cases, when a ghost appears to the living, they are appearing from the in-between. Ghost can either be stuck in the in-between, or merely sending their energy there for a short time. It takes a lot of energy for a ghost to be seen by the living. This potion allows the living to see into the in-between. Much easier for everyone."

"So," Yrsarald pondered, "Ulfric may not truly be a ghost, but, trying to communicate from Aetherius? Sovngarde?"

Wuunferth nodded. "Indeed, he could be."

I picked up the vial and stared at the label. The letters or symbols were unfamiliar to me. Wuunferth had said that the script was old, and used by mages only, but not so much anymore. I set the vial back onto the table. "I cannot drink a potion. What I drink and eat goes to the baby."

"I'll drink it," Yrsarald said, reaching over my shoulder to grab the vial. "How long does it last?"

"One sip will last a long time," Wuunferth answered. "Use it  _sparlegaar_."

Yrsarald studied at the vial. "And we can then speak with ghosts?"

"Yes," the old mage answered.

"And see them well," I added, "unlike the magic that makes them like a fog?"

"Indeed." Wuunferth nodded.

"What is in the potion?" Yrsarald asked.

" _Sotath_ oil, dried  _ytraltefn_ , bone  _mjol_ , and dried Nirn _-_ root."

I looked at Yrsarald. "You understand those words?"

"Hmph, no, not all of them." He looked to the old mage. "Will it do anything bad to me? Make me ill?"

"It will likely make you feel weak, but not ill. Remember – a small sip is all you need, and the effect will last for quite a while."

Yrsarald appeared satisfied. He desperately wanted to see his friend again, and perhaps obtain closure to and answers about the Jarl's abrupt end, as well as find out what his dream about Saarthal meant. "Wuunferth," I turned to the old mage, "who is Malkoran to you? Do you know him?"

My mentor sighed. "His name, as well as others – Calixto, Orthorn… came up at the Mage's Council meeting. Malkoran was a mage studying at the College when Calixto was there. Malkoran was removed from the College when it was realized he was practicing necromancy – there is a difference between conjuration magic and what he was doing…." Wuunferth sighed again. "Calixto left sometime after. Others, too. And then Orthorn left without even informing Mirabelle. He stole some books from the library there…. Soon after that is when Nordic ruins began to be invaded and the historians studying them attacked and killed."

"Ruins? Like Saarthal?" I asked. "More than one?"

"Yes. Five, in fact. Saarthal was the last – that we know about, anyway."

"Why did you not tell me?"

"You did not need to know, Deborah," was Wuunferth's answer.

I glared at my mentor. "Were things also stolen from the other ruins? Was Meridia's Light one of them? How did Calixto get it?"

"I do not know about the other ruins," he answered plainly, "but, no, Meridia's Light was not one of them. That is something different. For whatever reason, Malkoran may have taken it from her temple and given it to Calixto. Perhaps the Light can be used to aid in necromancy…."

I shook my head. "I think it is meant to be used  _against_ necromancy," I suggested.

"Hmm, more than likely," Wuunferth agreed. "It is also possible that Calixto had the Light simply because it was a Daedric artifact."

I nodded. It made sense; the man's house was filled with such things. At that moment I again felt a surge of energy flow within me. "Wuunferth, I keep feeling this… warmth. A good feeling. It happened after I spoke with Meridia, and again just now. It makes me feel good, and then dizzy, and then hungry. What is that?"

Wuunferth shook his head. "I have absolutely no idea, my dear."

I sighed, and Yrsarald and I turned to leave.

"Oh, Yrsarald…," Wuunferth called, standing and walking up to us.

"Hmm?"

Wuunferth placed his palm on Yrsarald's shoulder "Next time you feel the urge to shift…," my breath caught at the word "shift" –  _Wuunferth knows!,_ "you may want to keep your voice down." The old mage gave my partner a friendly, knowing wink. "Not to worry. I just mentioned  _agalaar_  to a guard that Deborah must have accidentally conjured a bear's spirit again." Wuunferth chuckled, and walked over to his alchemy table.

I turned to Yrsarald. He did not look surprised or worried, but rather amused. I smirked at my partner, and then turned to Wuunferth. "Is it truly possible to conjure animal spirits?" I asked him. "I only know one conjuration spell, and it is to  _banish_  daedra."

Wuunferth raised his right hand and instantly a swirling, dense purple-blue form appeared at his feet. Quickly, the form took on the shape of a crab the size of a small dog.

"Oh, gods damn it, Wuunferth," Yrsarald spat as he staggered away from the spirit crab and pressed his back firmly against the wall. "You know I hate  _ramiken._ "

The old mage was nearly in hysterics.

The giant crab began to skitter around the room.

Yrsarald promptly left.

. . . . . .

"And, so, we've been attempting to forge weapons out of that dragon's bones. Oengul thinks he can do it… but I'm not sure. He's making me write to other blacksmiths to see if they know how; if they're willing to trade knowledge for  _birg_."

I listened involuntarily to Hermir relate her goings-on at the blacksmith in town as she helped me into the used "light" steel armor Oengul had found for me.

After a while of fussing over leather straps and making sure the back and chestplate fit, I began to get restless. "I cannot breathe in this," I whined.

"Nords are born wearing steel," the young blacksmith apprentice declared.

I groaned. "Then why do the Stormcloaks wear cloth and leather?"

Hermir stared up at me, expressionless as she fastened my leg plates. "The Stormcloaks wear ring-armor under the leather."

 _Ring armor. Chain mail._ I sighed.

"You will grow the muscle," she assured me.

"I will grow muscle from training with a sword, but I do not understand the reason for metal armor. I have been training; I will fit in my old leather armor… eventually."

"This is more  _vithganta_  for a Dragonborn. Ulfric—" The woman swallowed a sob. "Ulfric had mentioned…," she cleared her throat, "that perhaps you would one day travel to the camps, enchant the soldiers' weapons, heal the injured…. He thought it best for someone like you to wear heavy armor, even more protective than the Stormcloak uniform."

I elected not to ask if Hermir was alright; she most certainly wasn't after thinking about her dead lover. I moved on to another comment she had made. "Someone like me?"

She gazed up at me again while tucking the last leather strap on my leg plates. "Someone soft, but valuable."

I rolled my eyes and bit my lip to refrain from cursing. "And what will happen when I lose my baby-size?"

"Oengul and Wuunferth have plans." Hermir stood and checked the rest of the straps and hooks and clasps.

"Wuunferth? For something enchanted?"

"Yes. He will also enchant your sword."

"Ow!" The chestplate was pulled too tight and had squashed my engorged breasts. I grumbled incoherent sounds for a moment. "This is impossible."

"You should not have become pregnant," she said, ignoring my discomfort. I scowled at Hermir, narrowing my eyes in a visual hiss; she didn't notice. "Alright. Move. Walk," she commanded.

The movement was awful. Arduous, slow, and unstable. "I lose all movement skill in this."

"You will get better."

"There must be something less heavy that I can wear."

"There is. That is what Oengul and Wuunferth will prepare for you, later. For now, train in this. When you put on something lighter, you will feel like it is nothing." Hermir then reached behind her to the dresser where she had placed a helmet.

"Oh, no, please," I begged her.

Hermir, all business, was having none of my shit. Glaring at me once more, she held out the helmet and waited impatiently for me to take it from her.

. . . . . .

Yrsarald and I watched as guards move our belongings into the Jarl's quarters. We were standing by what was Ulfric's desk. It was bigger than Yrsarald's, and cluttered with piles of books, papers, and scrolls. Yrsarald was inheriting everything from his friend and Jarl – all except Ulfric's clothes, which didn't fit Yrsarald, and Ulfric's mattress. I demanded that the former Jarl's mattress be removed and Yrsarald's mattress be placed onto the Jarl's odd, raised, centrally-placed platform bed that sat in front of a large fireplace.

"We should help them," I said.

"It is their job," was Yrsarald's response.

Yrsarald's new house-servant, which apparently was something like a bodyguard, named Calder, would move into our old room. He wasn't replacing Galmar, necessarily, but Galmar was constantly away from the palace and Yrsarald needed a personal guard. Calder had no problem sleeping on Ulfric's used mattress. "I've slept on worse," he had said. He was about the same age as Yrsarald, I thought, and was apparently a veteran soldier. He wasn't terribly attractive in my opinion, but that was likely due to his bushy auburn muttonchops and an angry, jagged scar that ran down the right side of his face. After meeting the man I giggled internally, wondering if Yrsarald had chosen a not-quite attractive bodyguard on purpose, but he was apparently chosen from the top of the Stormcloak ranks.

Yrsarald had also promoted one of the city guards to be my personal guard. My own house-servant. Ingjard was as tall as me, but was a typical Nord woman – busty and toned, and a born warrior. Unlike some of the Nord women I'd met, however, Ingjard was painfully beautiful – I always had a thing for redheads, from any gender. I had to wonder why Yrsarald chose her specifically. When I confronted my partner about his choice, I could tell he was confused by my interrogation and I dropped the matter. She was, after all, to be  _my_ bodyguard, not Yrsarald's. In the end I learned that Ingjard had been hired because of her decade-plus of service as a city guard and her untried loyalty to Windhelm, the Stormcloaks, and to Talos, and for the fact that she was a strong female which Yrsarald apparently thought was better for me than a male guardian.

Ingjard was in her mid-thirties, I guessed. Her red wavy hair was quite long and she held it back with two braids starting at either temple, just as Ulfric had. She wore steel armor more elaborate than Calder's – a family heirloom, if I understood her correctly – and was apparently as good with a warhammer as she was with a sword and shield, something I witnessed firsthand after Yrsarald proposed to have her assigned to be my guard. When I watched her destroy a wooden log in the training hall with a warhammer, I felt horribly inadequate, but reminded myself that I was a mage, and also not a Nord.

The woman was terrifying, but I soon realized she was also very good company. Yrsarald said that she would be accompanying me whenever I travelled away from Windhelm, wherever, no matter what. I was a little annoyed at his insistence, but I also felt very, very safe considering Ingjard's skill and strength. I reminded myself that the very idea of traveling alone across this world gave me mini panic attacks, and eventually I gladly accepted the arrangement.

When the time came for both Calder and Ingjard to be officially accepted into the palace ranks, the ceremony was brief and to-the-point, consisting of Jorleif giving them gold bracelets and making them swear to protect us and our household with their own lives. This, I learned, included any children either of us had. This meant Flavia, as well as her parents, would be under their protection, too.

As for Yrsarald's old position as military advisor, Galmar was going to promote a veteran commander or someone proven to be a capable advisor to come to Windhelm to take on Skyrim's equivalent of a military desk job.

When all of our belongings were finally in the Jarl's bedroom, we were left alone to settle in, unpack, redecorate or whatever else we wanted to do. But Yrsarald, half-sitting on Ulfric's large, cluttered desk, just stared at the expansive room with his arms crossed over his chest.

"What's wrong?" I asked him, running my fingers delicately across his thickening beard.

The man inhaled deeply and took his time exhaling before answering. "I don't know if I can do this."

"Be Jarl?"

"Yes. Be Jarl. Sleep here."

"Well, I think it is too late, now. Unless you want to share a bed with Calder. Or sleep in Galmar's bed. I am sure he will love that." I smiled and held my breath, suppressing a chuckle. I neglected to joke about him sharing Ingjard's bed.

Yrsarald wrapped an arm around my waist, but continued to stare at the room, particularly the bed. "What if he is here, now?"

"Ulfric?"

Yrsarald nodded.

"Drink the potion and see." I watched the man, studying his expression. "You have not tried it yet. Are you scared?"

"Yes," he answered immediately.

"Scared of what? It is just Ulfric. Unless…."

"Unless?"

I moved to the front of Yrsarald, grasped his hands, and pulled him upright. I walked us both backwards toward the raised platform bed and sat down. I then realized how convenient the stepped stone platform that led up to the mattress could be for certain activities, but that kind of experimentation would have to wait. "Are you worried you will see your family? Like Wuunferth did?"

"No, I'm not worried about that. I just," he frowned, "I feel odd, knowing that ghosts could be here, watching."

" _Laas."_  I breathed out the dragon word, and then looked around the room. Only Yrsarald's form and mine were glowing and shimmering red. I turned back to my partner. "No one but us." The short-lived effect of the dragon word faded.

"Can your Shout let you see into the in-between, though?" Yrsarald asked me. "Is it the same as magic? The potion?"

"I don't know." I slid back further onto the mattress and then stood up on my knees. "Try the potion," I urged. "And then, when you are satisfied there are no ghosts here, we can enjoy our new room." I hoped that my grin was as suggestive as I'd planned it to be.

When Yrsarald's lips twitched upwards in a faint smile, I knew it had. He uncorked the tiny vial and took a tiny sip. He recorked the vial, placed it on the desk, and waited. He looked around the room.

"What do you see?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said, still looking around. A few moments later, he sighed, climbed up onto the bed, and grasped my hips. "We're alone." He smiled before leaning down and kissing me. We fell back onto the bed and the wind was nearly knocked out of me by Yrsarald's large, heavy body. Despite his almost-but-not-quite mead belly compressing my diaphragm, I loved the feeling of his weight on me.

Yrsarald shifted, and his lips found the crook of my neck while a hand slid under the front fold of my mage's robe. Through his cloth trousers I felt his desire building quickly. My fingers tugged at his tunic as if it would obey and flee off of my partner's body. I writhed beneath him, desperate to feel his hand against my skin as opposed to my chest binding. Yrsarald's heat pressed against my thigh. I gasped when his fingers found a nipple.

And then someone knocked on the bedroom door.

We were both panting. "Fuck," I whispered as soon as I caught my breath.

"Maybe they will go away," Yrsarald hoped, but slowed the grinding of his body against mine to a near halt.

The knock came again. We both voiced our frustration. Yrsarald stood above me on his knees and frowned.

"Jarl Yrsarald," an unfamiliar male voice called from beyond the door, "you're needed downstairs."

My partner slinked off the bed and straightened out his clothing. He made for the door, but I had to stop him. "Ehh, Yrsa…," I couldn't help but giggle. "You're, ehh…." I cleared my throat and motioned toward his crotch.

He looked down. "Shit," he muttered.

I giggled again. Yrsarald uttering vulgar words was a rare thing indeed.

The knock came a third time.

"I'm coming!" Yrsarald bellowed.

"Think about… war," I suggested.

"War?" he turned to me, patting down his tented trousers.

"War. Blood, death." I frowned, realizing too late that the subject of death still might have been too raw for Yrsarald. "Ehh, or, something else."

He gave a little laugh and then turned away from me to gaze randomly at a wardrobe. " _Ramiken. Ramiken…,_ " he muttered several times, waiting for his arousal to wane. Before leaving, he turned back around. "I will return for you," he said with a curious smile.

I laughed and fell back onto the bed. A second later I was once again engulfed with that same pleasurable feeling I had felt several times since speaking with Meridia. It was like a warm duvet being wrapped around me, but just for a moment. I squirmed around the bed, wishing Yrsarald was still there. After a short while of enjoying the view of the Jarl's bedroom's high ceiling, I decided to commence the tedious task of unpacking. I needed to do something to burn off my pent-up energy.

The bedroom was twice as big as Yrsarald's and had twice as many things to put stuff in or on. It also boasted its own private bathing room, with a door, complete with a latrine and the very, very large tub that I was told about. Many of the bookshelves were already mostly occupied, but there was still plenty more space for my and Yrsarald's things.

Our belongings were piled up in open wooden crates near the door. From one of the crates I picked up my fur travel clothes. I smiled as I recalled the day Ralof purchased them for me, a very necessary thing for northern travel, I learned. I was about to see if the fur clothes still fit me when a knock again sounded at the door. I walked over and opened it to find Hrina, a guard and my somewhat-friend.

"Yrsarald needs you downstairs," she said with a dire look on her face.

Immediately I became concerned and quickly slipped on my boots before leaving with her. We trotted down the steps to the map room, and then entered the main hall which was empty.

"Where…?" I asked.

"Outside. Come," Hrina said as she headed straight for the palace doors.

Thankfully, the palace courtyard had three large stone-lined braziers that were always lit, and I didn't need my fur cloak. However, it was snowing outside and the wind was not very forgiving. I saw Yrsarald standing with his back to me in front of the far brazier, and I ran to my portable radiator. I hadn't seen what he was looking at or who he was talking to until I was at his side. Shock halted my thought processes momentarily. I stared, jaw agape at the unexpected sight.

"Stenvar?" I asked, as if it wouldn't actually be my friend.

"Hey,  _e_ —," his mouth moved to form what must have been the word  _elska_ , "sweetheart," but he stopped himself and recovered quickly. "Ehh, Deb." He brandished a sheepish smile.

I only then noticed that his Dark Elf friend, Jenassa, was with him. Her leather armor looked like it had seen better days. "Jenassa, hello," I said, and then looked around. Before us was a wooden box the size of a person that had apparently been dragged by ropes up to the palace courtyard. Stenvar's horse, a Palomino-esque mare named Honey, stood patiently at the courtyard entrance "Where is Erik?" I asked.

"Dead," she replied. "Kill by outlaws." A tiny quiver of the corner of her mouth belied her apparent lack of emotion.

"Tell her what you told me," Yrsarald commanded the pair of sellswords.

"We were travelin' northeast of Whiterun," Stenvar began, addressing me, "when we spotted somethin' strange. Three people, walkin', but… slowly. Very slowly, as if they were injured. Erik ran ahead and asked if they needed help, but they just kept walkin' as if he wasn't there. We realized somethin' wasn't right, and walked up to 'em, too. They were…." Stenvar looked like he had lost his words.

" _Gengangiren_ ," Jenassa interrupted. "We killed them. Put them out of their misery. We sent Erik to Jarl Balgruuf to tell him what we saw, but he never returned to us. We found out later that he was ambushed by outlaws on the way there."

"So we killed the outlaws," Stenvar continued, "and then went to see Jarl Balgruuf ourselves. He told us that this wasn't the first time he heard about  _gengangiren_  in 'is Hold, recently. And then I thought about you, Deb, that you're the Champion of Meridia, and thought you'd wanna know, too."

"On our way to Windhelm," Jenassa added, "we were heading towards Kyne's  _Lund_  when we again saw some outlaws. We, with the help of the Stormcloak solders there, killed them easily."

I heard a low groaning noise to my left, and everyone including me looked at the wooden coffin. "What was that?" I asked them.

"An outlaw," Jenassa answered.

Stenvar crouched down and lifted the wooden lid. I didn't know what to expect; I thought perhaps they kept the outlaw tied up in a box for whatever reason. When I peered down into the coffin-like box, I didn't see an outlaw.

I saw grey-beige flesh. I saw gaping, dark wounds encrusted with dried blood. I saw dead eyes gazing at the sky. I saw a damaged mouth, opened too far from I guessed a broken jaw, spread in a groaning snarl.

I saw a zombie.


	8. What the Sellswords Dragged In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh guys I'm terribly sorry. I don't know how, but chapter 8 never got posted and I accidentally posted chapter 9 instead. I have no idea how that happened! yeesh. Ok. HERE is the chapter that follows "In Between".

_Six years ago…_

"What the hell is that?"

I looked up to see Sara crouching down at my side, eyes fixed on the left upper arm of the skeleton I was slowly cleaning for photographs. The full excavation would come after.

"Yeah, I saw that," I answered. I gave the left upper arm another quick brushing. There was a series of small, faint indentations near the deltoid tubercle, a possible gnaw mark. "I wasn't going to really examine it until the rest was cleaned."

"Is it from a dog?"

"Maybe. In my notes I just put 'not rodent'. I'm going to take a few macro shots when we start taking photos."

"Heh. Weird." Sara stood and walked around the unit. "Looks like he was just thrown into the ditch."

"She, I think. And, yeah. Definitely thrown."

Sara knelt down again. "Is she missing a hand?"

"Looks like it. It wasn't cut off, though. The bones may show up in the screen. The coolest bit though is all those stones that were burying her. Like a cairn, but…. I dunno, different. There were stones on her limbs."

"Her limbs?"

"Yeah. Maybe this is one of those vampires." I chuckled, not taking myself seriously.

"Was there a rock in its mouth? Stakes in its hands and feet?"

"No, nothing like that. Just the rocks on its limbs and covering the grave."

"And you have pictures of all that?"

"Of course." I shot Sara a "what, am I stupid?" look. "Alex made sketches, too."

"Did Deb tell ya my theory?" Clive asked as he approached my unit.

" _No_  I  _did not_ ," I answered.

Clive chuckled. "Not vampire – zombie, 'cause of that bite on 'er arm."

I groaned.

"What?" Sara shook her head, her ear-length tresses fluttering in light brown waves. "Don't be daft, Clive."

Clive held up his hands, palms out. "Hey, I'm not sayin' it  _was_  a zombie, but someone  _thought_  she might've been."

"Ugh, stop," I pleaded.

"What?" Clive grinned. "I thought Americans were supposed t' be all about zombies. Zommmbie apocccalypssse…!"

"Just stop." I stood from my unit and headed towards the lab, otherwise known as a shed.

"Aww, runnin' off to Luke, are ya?" Clive continued to tease.

"No!" I yelled as I half-turned back to him.

I heard a scuffle behind me, and then Sara muttering, "Stupid git." Her voice faded as I walked further away. "You know all it takes is mentioning…."

. . . . . .

_Six seconds ago…_

I reeled back and kept stepping away until I was stopped by the stone-lined brazier. I soon realized I had temporarily stopped breathing, and my lungs were beginning to hyperventilate in order to catch up with my adrenal glands. My heart was pounding hard enough to hear.

 _This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not happening._ Images of the undead woman, chopped up, grotesque, flitted through my mind. I saw that little girl from I guessed the "Dawn of the Dead" remake, attacking a couple in their bedroom. I saw that half-eaten crawling zombie from the pilot of "The Walking Dead". I saw that zombie in a lab coat, dragging an axe, from "Resident Evil". I recalled the zombie dreams I had had on Earth and here in Skyrim. Dreams here were infinitely more vivid – so much so that it could be argued that the dreams were actually happening. Nightmares dreamt on Earth could wake me up and steal an hour or so of sleep from the responsive anxiety. Nightmares on Nirn, well… sleeping potions were created for a reason.

For me, who suffered from ambulothanatophobia so acutely that I couldn't be around dead bodies and therefore couldn't be a forensic anthropologist, watching anything to do with zombies was a mistake. Those visuals usually became burned into my memory. And, yet, I was drawn to zombie movies. I couldn't stay away from "The Walking Dead", but I only watched six episodes. In a day.

I didn't sleep well that night.

"Deborah," I heard Yrsarald's voice call to me. A hand grasped my shoulder and another my upper arm. Yrsarald asked if I was alright, but I couldn't answer. I didn't even have it within me to nod.

"What in Oblivion is wrong with her?" I heard Jenassa ask. "I thought you said she had experience with this."

My eyes squeezed shut. I sank slowly to the cold, snowy ground with my back pressed against the stone-lined brazier. I heard myself cry out several incoherent sounds as I wrapped my arms around my tucked knees.

Yrsarald knelt in front of me and his hands cupped my knees. I heard myself whimper. I heard rustling and an agitated sigh, likely coming from Jenassa. The calming nature of Yrsarald's presence began to take effect, however, and soon my breathing slowed. I opened my eyes to see his, full of worry.

"Why did you not kill it?" I asked both Stenvar and Jenassa as I gazed upon Yrsarald, willing my heart rate to slow.

"We  _did_  kill 'im," Stenvar said. "He came back."

I steeled myself, took a deep breath, and stood with Yrsarald's help. I walked back over to the open coffin and peeked at the zombie. The closer I stood, the more clearly I heard its quiet moaning. I hadn't seen it before, but there was indeed an arrow sticking out of the undead man's chest. I backed away again and closed my eyes. Yrsarald's hand found mine.

"You need to remove its head," I said, eyes still closed. "Or damage it." I gagged a little, but swallowed whatever had risen from my stomach. "Maybe burn the remains."

"Yeah, we know," Stenvar said. "Same as draugr. But… this isn't a draugr."

I opened my eyes to gaze at my friend. "Did the undead outlaw… attack you?" I asked. "Bite anyone?"

"No," Jenassa answered. "He just came back to life and started walking."

"Walking?"

"Walking," the Dark Elf confirmed. "Southwest. We followed him for a little while before we captured him. We think he was heading for a  _vig_  in that direction, the same as the other  _gengangiren_ in Whiterun Hold."

"Why…," I shook my head, "why bring it here? Why bring it anywhere? Why not just kill it?"

"We thought you would want to see it. You are the Champion of Meridia, are you not?" Jenassa asked.

"I— yes, I am."

"And, yet, you are afraid of the undead…." Jenassa's tone held a hint of derision. She remained tight-lipped for a moment, apparently sizing me up. "Well, fear  _is_  a combination of  _skinun_ and respect. I… supposed it can be a healthy  _ethla_ in a hunter."

"A hunter?" I asked.

Jenassa blinked her red-brown eyes. "You hunt the undead, correct?" She blinked again and then turned to Stenvar. "You said that she hunted the undead."

Stenvar was about to speak when I interrupted him. "Not yet," I began. "Not yet. Meridia wants me to train, first."

The Dark Elf woman laughed. "Wonderful. The Daedra are losing their minds, claiming weak children as their Champions. Train first? I thought you already attended the College. I hope you at least know how to repel the undead."

"Yes, I know that spell, but I have not yet used it."

"Well, then." Jenassa crossed her arms. "Perhaps Meridia herself wanted us to drag this creature all the way from Kyne's  _Lund_. You needed a practice  _gengangir_." I could tell that Jenassa was not impressed.

"I told ya it was a good idea," Stenvar said to his companion. He then turned to Yrsarald and me. "So, where do ya want me to put it?"

I turned to Yrsarald, who did not look terribly pleased with what Stenvar and Jenassa were proposing.

. . . . . .

I stood in front of a familiar prison cell beneath the palace, watching the undead man press his body against the southwest corner. He wouldn't stop attempting to move forward. Even now, the zombie wanted to head towards something east of Whiterun.

Stenvar and Jenassa stood beside me.

"Something calls to him, it seems," Jenassa said.

"We should've checked it out while we were there," Stenvar grumbled his remark.

"One cannot simply walk into a  _vig,_ Stenvar. We do not know what is inside."

"Since when're ya so scared of  _vigen_?" Stenvar asked his companion, smirking.

"Since  _gengangiren_ were being pulled to one," Jenassa responded. "I bet there are necromancers…." The Dark Elf wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered.

"I don't like necromancers," I muttered, still watching the zombie. "I don't like what they do."

"Then Meridia chose well," Jenassa said.

"Hey, ehh, Deb," Stenvar walked up to me, "I'm sorry about Ulfric. We only found out yesterday while travelin' 'ere. And, well, today… about Yrsarald. He's a good man; he'll be a good Jarl."

I smiled at my friend. "Yes, he will be."

"We… also heard a rumor. About a dragon attack, here." The corner of Stenvar's mouth twitched, but I couldn't tell which emotion he was fighting. "Is it true? That you're Dragonborn?"

Jenassa's eyebrows rose at Stenvar's question; she was eagerly awaiting my answer. I turned back to Stenvar. "Yes. I took inside me a dragon's soul, and made the dragon shouts. I can breathe fire like a dragon."

"A mage Dragonborn…," was all Jenassa said in response to my revelation. "And the orc that killed Ulfric – he is Dragonborn as well?"

"Yes. Meridia said he is, but he is too powerful for me to fight right now. She wants me to go to her temple, soon, to fight away a necromancer, but, not until I go to High Hrothgar." I turned back to watch the zombie. "I need to train as Dragonborn. Train in armor. Train…."

"Meridia's temple." Jenassa became lost in her own thoughts for a moment. "Necromancers.  _Gengangiren…_. I wonder if it is all related."

"And the undead woman," I added. "A necromancer here made a sewn-together woman from pieces of other women and made her live. She was killed, though. And we saw ghosts…. Ghosts. Undead. Undead ghosts…." I sighed and watched the undead outlaw relentlessly force his body against the cell wall corner. "Wuunferth says his magic strength is increasing. Maybe he is not the only one."

"Hmm, yes," Jenassa said, "the link to Aetherius is becoming stronger."

"Or the wall, weaker," Stenvar suggested.

"Yes, Stenvar," I replied. "Meridia says the walls are breaking, thinning. She did not say why. Maybe she doesn't know."

"Well, that doesn't sound good," was Stenvar's reply.

We stood in silence for a while, watching the zombie. I realized that the longer I stared at the creature, the more desensitized I became, at least for the moment. Indeed, I almost felt numb to the initial crippling fear and shock. I wondered if my anxiety had burnt itself out, and my emotions were currently on hiatus.

"I should try the spell," I announced, eventually. I centered my concentration on the zombie and raised my right hand. "Should I feel bad about this?" I asked, "making tests of spells on someone who was a person, once?"

"That person was an outlaw," Stenvar reminded me. "He was attackin' farmers, just to steal their food. If this man's soul's no longer in 'is body, he's certainly not in Sovngarde." He laughed. "If 'is soul  _is_ still in there… well, even better."

I frowned, but couldn't really disagree. I had no qualms about abusing the zombie; that is what concerned me more than the fact that I was going to  _experiment on a_   _zombie._ I closed my eyes and recalled the magical words that I had initially learned in order to cast this spell. Speaking the words made casting easier, but it was not particularly necessary. As Colette had taught me, the spell to repel undead creatures was related to healing spells. They were both "restoration" magic. Because I had an affinity for restoration as well as destruction magic, something Savos Aren had called a good balance, learning this particular spell was not difficult. I simply had to imagine a  _breneil_ , or "holy fire" if I understood the compound word correctly, emerging from my body and burning the unholy. Unlike lighting a tiny candle, I learned this particular spell right away.

The magic, which resembled a white-hot flame with its wavering blues and oranges, flew from my right palm and hit the zombie. Upon contact, the creature was momentarily stunned, but then began to run around its cell as if fleeing from something. It groaned loudly, either from pain or frustration, I supposed.

"It worked," I declared, barely enthused about the result.

"Good," said Stenvar. "Looks like it does the same thing as my sword."

"Your sword?" I hadn't noticed previously. The longsword hitched to Stenvar's back was not his usual iron sword, but rather a white-shimmering, golden one. "I remember seeing that… in Winterhold."

"Mmhmm. The Jarl gave it to me after he made me Thane. And then I gave it to Jenassa," he pointed over his shoulder to her with his thumb, "but the lady couldn't wield it properly, despite it being lighter than iron."

"I am a one-handed weapon kind of woman," the Dark Elf said with a triumphant air. "I like having a shield to fall back on. Not everyone can run around all day in steel, you realize." Her fingers delicately swept across Stenvar's steel-clad shoulder. "Besides, you are very loud inside caves. I would never 'trade up', as you have suggested."

I sighed. "Galmar wants me to wear metal armor. I don't think it will happen."

The zombie stopped running around, finally. It stood in front of the cell bars, simply staring at the back wall, but was soon at it again, pressing himself against the southwest corner.

"What else can you do to the undead?" Jenassa asked me.

"Fire," I said. "Draugr could not be killed with lightning. Fire made them slow, maybe even in pain, and when they were on fire we could remove their heads."

"Fire, eh?" Stenvar scratched his scruffy chin. "Makes sense. Draugr are all dried up, no hearts beatin'. Lightning wouldn't do a damn thing, but fire would light 'em up like dry leaves." He turned to Jenassa. "You're an elf – why didn't you at least learn a few simple fire spells?"

The Dark Elf turned to Stenvar. "I can light a campfire, if that is what you mean. You have seen me do it." She was defiant. "But beyond that, you know very well where my true skill lies."

"Deb?" A familiar voice called to me from the dungeon entrance. I squealed when I saw who it was.

"Marc!" I repeated his name as I ran into his arms.

My friend's laughter was music to my ears. "I'm happy to see you, too," said Marcurio.

"When did you return? Have you seen Bird and Flavia?"

"Yes, yes. You think you're the first person I wanted to see?" Marcurio flashed me a grin and a wink, and I giggled. "I returned not long ago. Long enough to give my husband a proper greeting." His mischievous grin disappeared when he saw the undead outlaw. "What in all of Tamriel is that?" he asked as he approached the iron bars of the cell.

I had forgotten the word for zombie that Jenassa had used. "Ehh, Marcurio," I tugged at his sleeve, "this is Stenvar and Jenassa. They killed this outlaw, but the outlaw did not stay dead. What did you call it, Jenassa?"

" _Gengangir_ ," the Dark Elf answered _. "_ It means, 'risen one', more or less."

"So, not like a draugr," Marcurio assumed.

"Not completely," Stenvar said, "unless…." The old sellsword ran a hand over his shaved scalp. "Perhaps this is how draugr look when they're still fresh."

We all turned to Stenvar, then back to the zombie, considering the possibility.

"No," Jenassa said, "draugr are  _balsamert_ , Stenvar. You have seen the tools they use."

"Hmm, yeah." Stenvar shrugged. "Nevermind."

"Sooo," Marcurio drew out the word and turned to me. "A lot has changed since I've been away. I heard about Ulfric on my way north, but Bird told me about the rest. Dragonborn…." My friend subtly moved his head from side to side. "I never would have thought. And,  _two_  Dragonborns…."

"This is why I am here, Marc," I motioned toward the zombie. "Dragonborn or not. I know it. Meridia wants me to do something about this."

Marcurio gave a knowing smile. "From someone who hates the undead as much as Arkay, I would expect no less." My friend then turned to Stenvar and Jenassa. He approached the pair and greeted them in the customary way. "So, Stenvar," Marcurio said, squinting at the sellsword, "I have heard good things."

"'Good things', eh?" Stenvar chuckled. "That's a first."

"Will you stay in Windhelm long?" asked Marcurio.

"That's yet to be discussed with the Jarl. There's a  _vig_  in Whiterun Hold this and other creatures were headed towards. We should investigate it, but Jenassa doesn't wanna go alone."

"That's probably wise," Marcurio said.

"The  _vig_ is in Whiterun Hold," Jenassa repeated. "We should ask Jarl Balgruuf for aid, not Jarl Yrsarald."

"Yeah, but," Stenvar turned to his companion, "we've got friends 'ere who'd be more than willin' to come with." He turned back to me. "What do ya say, feel like goin' on a real adventure?"

"Ehh, sorry," I frowned a little, though I wasn't horribly disappointed about my circumstance if I was honest with myself. "I am still breastfeeding."

"Oh, right," Stenvar replied, smiling. "How'd that go, then? Boy or girl?"

"Girl," Marcurio answered for me. "Flavia. My and Bird's daughter."

"Ahh, the friend who adopted." Stenvar had an odd smirk on his face that I ignored.

The entire time we were talking, the zombie continued to groan and attempt to walk through the wall. "Let us please leave this place," I suggested. "I can't listen to that thing anymore." I discretely pressed against my breasts with my upper arms. "I need to feed Flavia, anyway."

"Can I kill that thing, now, then?" asked a weary guard.

I stopped walking, looked to my three companions, and shrugged. None of them could give a reason why not to kill the thing, if their silence was any indication. "Unless...," I bit my lip and looked to Stenvar. "Do you want to follow it all the way to Whiterun?"

The old sellsword chuckled. "No, no. We don't need 'im." He turned to the hopeful guard. "Cut off 'is head. Burn everything."

The guard nodded, turned to the zombie, and sighed.

As we walked out of the dungeon, I addressed Stenvar and Jenassa. "If you two want to stay the night here, I'm sure it will be fine. There is probably room in the barracks, or perhaps even a guest room. I will speak to our steward."

"Thanks, Deb," I heard Stenvar say behind me, "but you don't have to. We can stay in the Candlehearth."

"It is fine. We can see tonight or tomorrow about perhaps giving you some soldiers, but I cannot speak for Yrsarald. I will suggest it, though." Out in the main hall, I turned to my friend and his companion. "Please, dine with us tonight. Except for you bringing to this place an undead thing…," I sighed, "it was nice to see you again." I approached Stenvar to give him a very brief friendly hug, clasped wrists with Jenassa, and then left with Marcurio for his bedroom.

When we were out of ear-shot from Stenvar and Jenassa, Marcurio spoke again. "So, Stenvar, hmm?"

"Yes, Marc. He and Jenassa came today with the creature."

"He's… nice."

I shot my friend a questioning look as we entered the map room.

"Yrsarald! There you are." Marcurio trotted up to my partner and grasped his forearm in greeting. "I missed you when I came in."

"Marcurio, it is good to see you."

"Listen, I'm truly sorry about Ulfric. I crossed paths with Galmar on my way north. Such a horrible way to go…." Marcurio frowned and shook his head. "I feel strange congratulating you on your new position, but, congratulations." Marcurio and Yrsarald clasped forearms again. "I know you will honor Ulfric and his memory; you will be a great Jarl."

"Thank you, Marcurio."

I turned to my partner. "Yrsa, I hope it's alright. I've asked Stenvar and Jenassa to dine here tonight, and perhaps sleep in the barracks, or one of the guest rooms if one is free. Can you speak to Jorleif?"

Yrsarald nodded, and thankfully didn't appear too put-off by the idea. "Of course."

"Thanks." I stood on my toes to give him a quick kiss.

Yrsarald smiled at me, but then looked at my chest and frowned. "You're  _lekig_."

"'Lekig'?" I asked.

Yrsarald cleared his throat and nodded toward my chest. I looked down to see my recently-cleaned mage's robe soaked through with breast milk. "Gods damn it," I grumbled and stormed off upstairs to change and then nurse.

. . . . . .

"I'm sorry, Bird." I sighed and closed my dressing robe. Flavia was still crying for food. "Only two months…. This is not right. I didn't think I…  _lekt_  very much just before I came here."

"Perhaps you're too stressed."

I laughed nervously. "Of course I am stressed. There is a… walking undead man in our dungeons. Well, was…."

Bird shot me a confused look, and I related to him what had happened, and that Stenvar and Jenassa had brought back the undead outlaw with them from the south.

"By the Nine…," he said, shaking his head. "First ghosts, now  _gengangiren_? What is happening?"

I sunk into one of the large, comfy chairs in their room. My old room. "Meridia said there is something out there that is making ghosts possible, breaking the walls between worlds. Perhaps something is bringing back the dead. Perhaps it is the same thing." I ran my fingers along the arm of the chair. "I cast heavy magic today, and also that day I saw the ghost. I hope that is not why I leaked and became dry so quickly."

Bird was doing his best to calm his daughter. "Hmm, I don't know."

Watching the baby turn beet red from frustration and hunger was tearing my heart in two. "She needs milk."

"She can drink goat's milk for today," Bird said, "but not for too long. She's too young."

"No. She needs another woman."

. . . . . .

"We cannot spare guards, Jarl Yrsarald," said Jorleif.

"Surely we can spare one or two. This is an important matter that needs to be looked into. I will write a letter to Jarl Balgruuf telling him what we know; perhaps he too can send guards to the  _vig_. These two," he indicated Stenvar and Jenassa, "can take it to him."

"You should probably bring at least one mage, maybe two," I suggested. Stenvar, Jenassa, Yrsarald, Jorleif and Marcurio all turned to me. Calder and Ingjard were not far away, surely listening in. "One to heal, and one to detect life, or the undead."

"I can do all of those things," Marcurio declared.

"Yes, but for how long until you become tired?" I asked him. "We should write to the college to see if anyone wants to help."

Marcurio shook his head. "I think you should go with me." I began to protest but he raised his hand to stop me. "Yes, I know you are breastfeeding, but you said yourself that you're already starting to dry up. Deb, you have deeper magic reserves than any mage I know. You can last longer. We are looking for a breast-feeder for Flavia, and I can help with your milk, if you still have some by the time we leave."

"What?" I asked, somewhat appalled.

He chuckled. "It is not very different from a goat, which I had the pleasure of learning how to milk while I was in Dawnstar with Bird's family years ago. I will teach you how to do it yourself, but I will be there if you need help. And, anyway, we both know I will get no joy out of touching your breasts." I heard Stenvar snicker quietly, no doubt amused by the visual. Marcurio ignored him. Yrsarald could not, and cocked an eyebrow as he stared at the sellsword, but ultimately said nothing. Stenvar quieted quickly after catching Yrsarald's glance. Marcurio grasped my hand to regain my attention. "Just think of me as providing a necessary service to the Dragonborn so that she need no longer be  _enskurthur_ inside palace walls."

Marcurio's expression was calm and humorless. He was serious. He was offering to milk my breasts while on the road. "Ehh, I don't know, Marc…." I turned to Yrsarald, who did not look offended. He and Marcurio had become friends, and I guessed Yrsarald understood that Marcurio was absolutely not interested in me in that way. My partner shrugged and gently smiled as if to say, "Why not?" I turned back to Marcurio. "Alright, I will go. Meridia probably wants me to go, anyway."

My friend sighed, and smiled. "Good, good. I suggest you be the one to heal when necessary, mostly because you are better at it, but also because, well," Marcurio chuckled, "you have not been practicing much, I expect."

"It is true," I replied, "I have not cast many spells, recently. But I have been exercising, a little. In armor."

"Alright, good." Marcurio stood from the banquet table. "I will go see if Bird has found someone for Flavia." Before leaving, however, he planted his hands on his hips and grinned. " _Gengangiren. Vigen_ …. It's a little exciting, no?" He chuckled, and trotted to the stairwell.

I turned to the others who had been in on the conversation, and then to Yrsarald. "I hope this is alright with Galmar. I know he wanted me to go to the camps."

"No," my partner replied. "This is more important than him showing you off. We can see about that when you return. You are not yet ready to wear armor in battle, though."

"I have my mage's robe." I stood as I replied. "If I am healing, I will be away from the fighting. And, anyway, I can do  _this_." I held up both hands. With my right I cast a spell called Stoneflesh which made my skin and clothes hard to the touch and more difficult for weapons and magic to penetrate. It also made my body shimmer a light turquoise. With my left, I cast and kept casting my ward spell, which not only protected me from magic but also absorbed a spell's energy to replenish my own. I stopped casting and dropped my hands to my hips. I was still shimmering. "If we will find necromancers at this  _vig_ , then I am prepared."


	9. Different

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter officially bumps up this story to an E rating. WARNING: Violent nsfw stuff below.
> 
> I wanted to make a note about Skyrim's geography. I don't recall where I found it, but someone else estimated that Skyrim was approximately the size of the country Poland. Early on when I started writing "Hero by Mistake", I calculated distances between landmarks by road travel, and plugging in the maximum distance a horse could travel in a day whether carrying a person or dragging a cart. I am putting this at 16 travel hours per day for Skyrim's hardy horses – this is twice the max for Earth's horses, so we'll blame this on magic, yes? Heh. I estimated how many travel days it would take to reach any given place, more or less. So, I estimated that horse-travel days by road from Whiterun to Windhelm would be about three (in Polish terms, this would be approximately from Bialystok to Lodz). Windhelm to Riften would be about four days by horse or cart (approximately Bialystok to Rzeszow). Multiply travel days by 2.5 if you're walking. Therefore, unlike in the game which could take you five minutes to walk from one major landmark to the next, I'm writing travel times realistically. I don't know how accurate my calculations are, but at least they're more accurate than in-game travel!
> 
> Example of calculations, Windhelm to Whiterun:  
> 3 horse travel days, 16 hours per day, 4 miles per hour, 48 hours horse walking  
> 8 human travel days, 8 hours per day, 3 miles per hour, 66 hours human walking

Three days after Stenvar and Jenassa came to Windhelm, we were off to Whiterun. Thankfully, Marcurio and Bird had found a wetnurse who Flavia accepted without issue, and just as he had promised, Marcurio taught me how to express from my breasts what little milk I had left. The process was awkward and a little embarrassing, but it would indeed allow me to travel.

It was about two weeks from my birthday. I hoped we wouldn't be on the road for that long and I would be able to wake up on my birthday in my own bed. I admitted to myself though that I would likely be turning thirty-one years old in the company of friends and soldiers, not with Yrsarald.

Except for the two Stormcloaks accompanying us who were riding horses, I, Marcurio, Ingjard, and Jenassa all sat in a horse-drawn cart with Stenvar sitting next to the cart driver. Stenvar's and Jenassa's horses walked behind the cart on leads.

As soon as we left the Windhelm stables I knew we were taking a different route than I had taken with Ralof. "Why do we go west and not south?" I asked Stenvar.

"We'll stay at the Nightgate Inn on our first night," my friend answered. "They likely got enough rooms for the lot of us, unlike the inn at Kyne's  _Lund_. From there, I'm thinkin' we'll camp at a farm north of Whiterun. We'll get to the town late on the third night."

"Hopefully there is enough room for us at the inn in town," Marcurio said.

"If not, Stenvar and I can stay at the Huntsman," said Jenassa.

"Will they even allow the two Stormcloaks into the town?" I asked.

"They are wearing  _ypstemil_ armor, as Stenvar and I are," Jenassa answered. "The guards of Whiterun will not recognize them as Stormcloaks."

"We are coming from Windhelm," I reminded her. "Will they not assume we are at least friendly with Stormcloaks?"

"Whiterun is not officially an enemy of the Stormcloak army," Ingjard chimed in. "They remain  _lutla_  on the war, aiding neither side, nor do they punish soldiers from either side. In fact, they have been known to send healers from Kyne's temple to troops in both armies."

"Hmph. Speaking of healers…." I turned to Marcurio. "I never asked you – how did you do, out there? Was it dangerous?"

"No, not at all. I was fine. There were no other Imperials in the area, and no more dragon attacks." Marcurio paused, and smiled. "Have you read that letter Ralof had me take for you?"

I sighed. "Yes, I did. I suppose I will wait to reply until after I see his family in Whiterun."

Marcurio narrowed his eyes at me and scratched his soul-patched chin.

"What?" I asked him.

"There's something you're not telling me," my mage friend answered.

I crossed my arms. I could tell immediately that my breasts were nowhere near being swollen with milk. The thought troubled me, and I wished I knew why my milk production had slowed so suddenly, and why I was always so damn hungry lately. I desperately hoped I wasn't pregnant again, though I knew it was highly unlikely since Yrsarald and I had been careful, and since breastfeeding tended to lower the chances of conceiving to almost nothing. I grumbled at Marcurio, but was thankful for conversation that was taking my mind off of other matters. "It is complicated," I finally answered.

"That means they have history," Stenvar hollered back from the driver's seat. He followed his assumption with laughter.

"History? Stenvar, you don't mean to say…?" I grumbled to myself. "No, no. Ralof and I are friends. We survived Helgen together with Ulfric. Yes, we have history, but, not of the kind you are thinking, Stenvar."

"But you wanted to," Ingjard butted in. I glared at her for intruding on my personal life. My stunning redhead bodyguard smiled and chuckled at something she found amusing. "Don't be ashamed, Deborah. Anyone who is attracted to men and has met Ralof has wanted to bed him. At least that is what I have learned. He's a beautiful man, a fine soldier, and sweeter than a sweetroll."

"What do you mean, it is what you have learned?" Jenassa asked.

Ingjard gave Jenassa a gentle smile; the pair locked eyes for just a moment too long.

_Oh, boy_. I groaned inwardly. I had known from the moment I met her that Jenassa was bisexual. Her flirtatiousness knew no bounds. The Dark Elf had obviously been bedding young redhead Erik with the bluest blue eyes, but had readily made red-brown doe-eyes at me. Ingjard, however, I had not guessed was a lesbian. My gaydar never, ever worked for women, oddly enough. I wondered then if Yrsarald knew about Ingjard's sexuality. Not that it mattered. Sure, I found the redhead attractive, very much so, but I was in love with Yrsarald and wasn't about to explore my sexual curiosity with someone other than him, and  _only_  him.

I then chuckled inwardly at the revelation that Jenassa was apparently attracted to redheads just as I was. Although Yrsarald's hair was more of a light brown with red highlights, he was definitely a ginger. Ralof was an exception to my usual trend in being attracted to either redheads or "dark" men. And then thoughts of the very blonde half-elf Elodie entered my mind, and I wondered how she was doing.

"So, what is it that you are nervous about?" Ingjard asked me. "Aside from heading to a  _vig_  full of necromancers, that is."

"I didn't say I was nervous," I replied.

"You did not have to," Jenassa said. "Anxiety  _geisla_ from you as an oven gives off heat."

I knew I was blushing. I looked away from everyone and took in the still-frozen northern landscape instead.

"Fine, don't tell us," Marcurio said. "We'll all just assume you've bedded the blond Nord. No worries."

"I did not, Marc," I assured him, still gazing north.

"She wanted to," I heard Ingjard whisper.

I groaned; not only because of the group's relentless pestering about Ralof, but because Stenvar was hearing all of it, and Stenvar and I  _did_  have a history. This, Marcurio and likely Jenassa knew. I suddenly felt incredibly trampy when I realized that Marcurio, too, had been inside me, though under very different circumstances. Thankfully, Yrsarald was the only person I needed or wanted in my bed from now on.

"It doesn't matter, anyway," Ingjard said.

"What does not matter?" Jenassa asked.

I turned to look again at my bodyguard; she was smirking

"Because Ralof is going to marry my sister," the redhead answered.

I must have looked like a terrified rabbit staring at a fox. "Eyleif is your sister!?" I blurted.

Ingjard looked surprised. "You know of her? She kept her relationship with Ralof secret from even  _me_  for years."

"Yes, I know of her. And I know they had a son not long ago."

"Sighulf, yes. I have not seen him yet, so I was excited to travel with you to Whiterun where Eyleif is still living." Ingjard looked at me questioningly. "How is it that you knew?"

My mouth twitched a little, unsure if it should form a smile or a frown. "Ralof is as a brother to me," I answered truthfully, however painful the truth still was for whatever reason.

"And yet Gerdur his true sister knew nothing until Eyleif arrived in Riverwood with child," Ingjard informed me.

I frowned at her remark. I didn't know how to answer her questions without explaining what happened between me and Ralof.

"You said it yourself, Ingjard," Stenvar bellowed. "Deb wanted to bed this blond Nord beauty. My own gold says she  _gelt_ with the man, and he was forced  _lostrar_  his relationship to 'er." The old sellsword turned back to me; he was grinning from ear to ear. "Well, am I correct?"

I rolled my eyes, unwilling to answer Stenvar.

"Yep, as I thought," I heard him say.

"I did not admit to anything," I protested.

Marcurio was chuckling. "You didn't have you, sweetie."

I groaned and closed my eyes. "Shut up."

Thankfully, the group's teasing about me and Ralof ended long before we reached the inn where we were to spend the night. Expressing milk from my breasts was done in the comfort and privacy of the bathing room in the basement of the inn which, like the inn at Winterhold, brought in natural hot spring water to heat their baths. I felt  _udderly_  unglamorous as I released milk into a bucket after soaking in the tub. I didn't have that luxury while on the road, however, and had to do my best to relieve the worryingly subtle pressure in my breasts during brief breaks. This meant praying to not get frostbite on my nipples, and ignoring quite-serious offers from Jenassa to help me with my "burden".

In one of our rented bedrooms, I happily shared a bed with Marcurio, and Ingjard was fine with the floor and her bedroll. As we lay in the lumpy inn bed, Marcurio whispered to me that he and Bird had heard my rigorous lovemaking session with Yrsarald the night before. When I whined at my embarrassment, my friend assured me that it was alright.

"Don't worry about it, Deb. It's understandable. If Bird and I didn't have Flavia, we'd likely wake up the entire palace."

I grimaced. "I do not want to hear that you have sex while Flavia is in the room!"

My friend chuckled quietly. "How do you think families all over the world make children? Many live in one-room houses, you know, with more than one child. So long as couples are not in the middle of the town having sex, no one cares."

"Truthfully," Ingjard butted in, "no one cares at all. Otherwise, we guards would  _never_ get fucked."

Marcurio laughed heartily.

. . . . . .

The second day of travel was more pleasant, as we eventually started to head south. Around midday, I thought I saw something odd to the west, but I couldn't be sure. "Marc, what is that?" I asked, pointing toward the distant figures.

"Oh, those are  _mamuten_ ," he answered.

I spun to my side to look at my friend, certain I had misheard him. "'Mamuten'?" I repeated. "Like, big… very, very big things with… the long… things…?" Marcurio raised an eyebrow at my inability to explain, and then laughed when I used my two index fingers, curved slightly and pressed to either side of my mouth to represent tusks. I then used my arm to represent a trunk and made a horrible impression of a proboscid, garnering laughter from Ingjard, but not Jenassa. The Dark Elf merely gave me an odd look, likely unamused by my childlike behavior. Very likely, Jenassa did not know I wasn't from this world, and Ingjard certainly didn't.

"Yes," Marcurio said through his laughter. " _Mamuten."_

I whipped around again to gaze at the small herd of mammoths which, through the haze of the gloomy late second-winter day, were slowly becoming clearer as our paths began to merge somewhat. "I cannot believe what I see," I said, literally full of awe.

"What can you not believe?" Jenassa asked.

"Mammoths exist," I answered, jaw still hung low and eyes still wide with wonder.  _Mammoths!_ Except these mammoths had four tusks instead of two.

"Of course they exist," Jenassa replied. "Has this woman never left the northeast?" she asked someone else.

"Leave 'er alone, Jen," Stenvar said.

"How have you not seen mammoths before, Deborah?" I heard Ingjard ask.

I ignored her for the time being, wanting to observe the creatures as they lumbered further and further away from the road, having changed their projection.

"Deborah?" Ingjard asked again.

"Long story," I said, deliberately curt, and watched the mammoths until the haze and horizon stole them from my sight.

"Long day of travel still ahead of us," Stenvar said. I felt someone nudge my upper arm and turned to see Stenvar grinning at me. "You wanna tell 'em, or should I?"

. . . . . .

"I can't believe you're from another world," Ingjard said moments after I finished my tale.

"It's true," Marcurio assured her. "She speaks her home language when she sleeps, sometimes."

"Well," Jenassa began, "I certainly believe you. It explains a lot."

"It sure does," Stenvar agreed.

"Did the gods bring you here?" Ingjard asked the inevitable question.

"They did," Stenvar answered for me.

"Meridia and Arkay, mostly," I elaborated. "Others helped. And Akatosh blessed me. If he had not, I would have been very unhelpful to anyone in this world. But they made me a mage. Maybe a mage is needed for what is to be done."

"A mage  _Dragonborn…_ ," Marcurio mused, still somewhat amazed by my new status.

"I think," I continued, slowly, "that I am not like that other Dragonborn. The orc. Meridia said that he was born to be Dragonborn. I think he was born to hunt dragons. Me, I was re-made to be a mage, but perhaps I am meant to use this power I have, now, against the undead, not dragons. I think that is what Meridia and Arkay want."

Everyone was silent for a while.

Ingjard was the first to speak again. "Meridia speaks to you? Does Akatosh?"

I shook my head. "Only Meridia." I opened my knapsack and pulled out the cloth sack in which I had placed Meridia's Light. I let the rock fall onto my gloved palm. "This is her Light. I think I was fated to find it, not long ago. Before, she talked to me in dreams. Now, I can talk to her with this."

"I've never spoken to a Daedra Lord before...," Ingjard mused with a wistful air.

"Hmph," was all Jenassa said.

"She is not like the other Daedra Lords," I said. "She was… Magna Ge. Magnus is her father. A Star Child," I said, forgetting the actual word Wuunferth had used to describe her. A moment later, I asked, "Is it true that the sun is a hole left by Magnus and the stars are holes left by his children?"

"Yes," everyone, including the cart-driver, answered.

. . . . . .

I awoke to the sounds of rustling and rhythmic moaning. Half-delirious as to where I was, it took me a moment to recall I was in a tent, sleeping next to Marcurio, near a farm, in the middle of Skyrim. The dim campfire light seeped through the tent walls, and I turned to see that Marcurio was awake.

"Marc, is that what I think it is?"

"Mmhmm. They've been going for some time, now. I haven't slept at all."

" _Ugh_ , I'm sorry." I propped myself up to look for Ingjard, but she wasn't there. "She's not here." I turned back to look at Marcurio in the near-dark. "Is that her? And who? Jenassa?"

"And Stenvar. At least, I think it is him."

I lay back down on my bedroll and stared at the tent ceiling. Its color shifted from black to gold to yellow as the fire flickered. I let out a long, frustrated sigh.

"Does it sound familiar to you?" Marcurio asked me.

I nudged him lightly on his shoulder. "Stop it."

He laughed and wrapped an arm around me. "It's alright, sweetie. We can be miserable together."

"You are not the person who knows how good—" I cut myself off, not allowing myself to finish the thought aloud or otherwise. "Nevermind. Maybe I have some cotton to put in our ears."

"I tried that. Didn't help.  _Someone_ is doing a good job, over there."

"Shut up," I groaned.

"Hey, it isn't as if either of us has been without sex for a long time." Marcurio sat up. "Is Yrsarald not good? Is your  _stinig_  not real?"

I turned to see Marcurio's grin flash against the dim firelight. I rolled my eyes, and then turned to my side, facing away from my friend. After a moment, I responded. "Please do not listen to my sex sounds."

He laughed. "It cannot be helped. Stone halls carry sounds, even from the far-removed Jarl's quarters." Marcurio then moved to spoon me, something we had done many times in the past but not since I became pregnant with his husband's child. "Truly, Deb. Is he not good?"

"Yes, yes he is good, Marc."

"But not as good as Stenvar?"

I sighed. "Different. Every man is different."

"Yes, I know. I've had a few, you know."

"Hmph _._ "

"How is he different?"

"I do not ask you about Bird…."

"No, but you  _know_  Bird is good."

"Oh, stop it," I playfully smacked his rear, which just made him giggle.

"Deb, we're friends. What good is it if we can't  _varukar_  about things like this?"

I grumbled, but acquiesced. "As is obvious," I said as I listened to Jenassa climax from whatever Stenvar was doing to her, "Stenvar is perfect. It is as if he was trained to please a woman. And maybe he was. Did I tell you he worships Dibella?"

"No. He does? Hmm…."

"Yes. He knows exactly what to do, and he does it well. I think he loves a woman's body. Any woman's. But, Yrsarald," I smiled, "when he and I…," I reached back for Marcurio's hand and held it tight. "When Yrsa and I are together, it is as if every time it is the first and last time we will ever touch. It is… I forget your word. Like, every time, we cannot believe we are truly together. I cry often, during, because I am so happy, and it feel so… right… to be with him. Sometimes he cries, too. We waited a long time before we came together. I think we both knew it would happen, and that we had time to let it happen…." I smiled again at the memory of our first time being intimate. "Yrsarald is different in many ways. It is as if he… feels everything that I feel, and understands everything that I want. Maybe he truly does. He did not have to learn things about me, in this way. He just knew. Yes, Stenvar is the perfect lover. But Yrsarald… Yrsa is perfect for me."

Marcurio was silent for a while, but finally reacted. "Well, I feel a bit jealous, now."

I laughed, and then tried to ignore the sound of a woman giggling as Stenvar climaxed. "I know you and Bird have that, too. I have been there…."

"Yes, yes you have, mother of my child." Marcurio patted my still somewhat-flabby belly.

I laughed, and then sighed. "It feels strange. I don't know Ingjard very well, but should she not behave… better? She should be here, guarding me, yes? And I know I should not feel strange that Stenvar is with another woman. Women." I groaned a little.

"He is not with Ingjard," Marcurio said.

"Hmm?"

"Ingjard prefers women."

"Oh. Yes, I thought I saw her and Jenassa, how they looked at each other. So, that means… Stenvar and Jenassa?"

"And Jenassa and Ingjard."

"At the same time."

Marcurio hugged me tight. "Are you alright?"

"Of course. It is just a little strange."

"Strange seeing Stenvar again? Strange that he has fun with other women? Strange that your house-servant is allowing herself to have some fun?"

After a moment, I answered. "Yes, all of that."

"That's a bit  _marila_  of you, you know."

"A bit what?"

"Thinking only of yourself."

"Oh." Selfish. "No it is not."

Marcurio laughed. "Yes, it is. Ingjard isn't allowed to have any fun. Stenvar isn't allowed to have any fun. Why? Because Ingjard is meant to attend to you; sure, that is her job. But Stenvar? You have no claim on him."

I stiffened. "Nevermind. I don't care."

"Horse shit," Marcurio exclaimed unexpectedly.

"I don't. I don't care. It will just be strange, after. I will have to look at Ingjard's face knowing that she… well, saw Stenvar naked, at least."

"I doubt she cared about seeing  _him_  naked."

My sigh was more of a grumble.

"Listen, I understand. If one of my  _fyra_  lovers was fucking one of those handsome Stormcloaks, I would be jealous. It is natural to feel this way, I think. But don't let it make you upset, or feel strange around Ingjard. She will be with you all the time; that's her job. She's also human, though, and may occasionally want to have sex with a pretty woman. Or elf." I could hear his mouth crackle as it spread in a grin.

. . . . . .

We ate our meager breakfast as if nothing interesting happened the night before. I was fine with this – more than fine, actually – and I wasn't about to bring up last night's events if I didn't have to.

The remainder of the ride south was uneventful aside from passing another mammoth herd, this time accompanied by a giant. A real, twelve-or-so-foot-tall giant. He was sinewy and sported a bushy beard, was tattooed sporadically over his body, and was dressed only in a leather loincloth. He carried a club that looked like it was a tree branch with a rock tied to the end. If I understood Stenvar correctly, the giant was  _herding_ the mammoths.  _Herding_ them. I was dumbfounded. I wondered how it was possible for what otherwise looked like a Nord to grow that tall, but no one really had any answers for me – giants simply  _were_ , as far as anyone with me knew. They were usually harmless, Stenvar related to me, but occasionally they caused trouble with farmers and their livestock and had to be taken down. He and Jenassa had made quite a bit of coin doing this for people, apparently. Jenassa said that the only way to kill a giant without risking certain death by clubbing was to hit it from afar with a poison arrow. Or, if you're her, hit it square in the eye or neck. I figured, though, if I could take down a dragon with magic, I could likely take down a giant with the same, particularly because its flesh was no different than a human or elf's.

At some point during the clear, bright night, I was nudged awake; someone dared interrupt a pleasant dream I was having about a Hershey's milk chocolate bar. It was Marcurio. I grumbled at the interrupter of my chocolaty fantasy.

"We're here, come on," he said while gently shaking my shoulder. "A bed is surely better than this cart." I yawned as Marcurio helped me down. The Stormcloak soldiers, Stenvar, and Jenassa had already stabled their horses.

This was the first time I was going to visit Whiterun inside its walls, the first time I was going to see another large town outside of Windhelm; I was a little nervous as well as excited. The weather was clear and I saw countless stars in the sky. The two moons lit our way as did the occasional burning brazier or oil lamp. The town was warmer than Windhelm, that was for sure, and there were actually trees inside the walls. It was very late when we arrived and almost no one was outside except for guards, but I did see a young couple running and giggling into the night.

"You all go on ahead," Stenvar said. "I've got someone I need to see." He walked off, without Jenassa, to the left toward what looked like a section of cottages.

The rest of us headed straight down a stone-paved dirt road toward a well-lit area that looked like a market square. Despite the rest of the town looking somewhat dead for the time of night, people who had been or were still drinking were sitting and chatting or were up and dancing in the otherwise empty square. Providing the entertainment were two elf men who reminded me of Faendal, playing drums; a dark-skinned woman, a Redguard I guessed, playing a flute; and a blond man, probably a Nord, playing a lute.

As we walked on, I spotted a typical placard of Skyrim's inns rocking back and forth with the gentle night breeze. The large inn by Whiterun's marketplace was called " _Borthikur_  Mare". The placard showed an armored rider wearing a large-horned helmet and a cape, sitting atop a rearing horse. The name of the inn was written on a banner. "Is a 'borthik' the sort of thing you hold high for people to see?"

"Yes," Jenassa replied, "just as the  _skylt_  shows." She poked the placard, causing it to wobble a bit before waving back and forth again.

_Skylt_. Placard.

The inn was quiet, perhaps due to the hour of night, though there was a young, pretty woman with short auburn hair still tending bar. "Well," the bartender began, "what a large crowd. And mages? You must be adventurers." The woman smiled politely, until, "Oh!" she exclaimed excitedly. "Jenassa! I didn't recognize you. You don't usually travel with such a big  _felgaskap_."

"Yes, I know…," Jenassa grumbled in her usual annoyed-yet-sultry tone.

The bartender looked worried. "I don't know if we have six rooms."

"Not necessary, Ysolda," Jenassa replied. "Three will be fine, if you have it."

"Three. Yes, I believe I can do that." The young woman, Ysolda, flipped through what looked like a ledger. "Yes, three, all with large beds. I can do four, if you wish."

"Yes, four," Nafrik, one of the Stormcloak soldiers droned. The other soldier, Fjalar, looked relieved.

"Very well," Ysolda replied. Jenassa placed four stacks of gold coins on the counter. Ysolda counted the coins, smiled, and then led us all to the lower level of the inn. Each room had a letter painted on the doors. " _Fen, Gypt, Iz,_ and  _Mathir_  are all free.  _Gypt_ and  _Iz_  have a small bed each, and  _Fen_ and  _Mathir_  have larger beds. All have room on the floor," she glanced at Ingjard's bedroll, "if you need it. I will be upstairs until dawn, and then Hulda will take over for the day. If you decide to eat or drink anything in the room, the prices are listed on a paper on the night table. Please pay  _samraar_. Goodnight."

As we settled into our rooms – myself, Marcurio and Ingjard in one of the larger ones, the Stormcloak soldiers each taking one of the smaller ones, and Jenassa settling into the other larger room – I went to go ask Jenassa something.

"Jenassa, where did Stenvar go?"

"To visit his  _sistrin_."

"'Sistrin'?"

"The daughter of the younger brother of his father."

"Oh. I didn't know he had family here."

"Stenvar does not talk about them often. They did not like his mother…. But, he is on good terms with Olfina. They are quite close, I believe." The Dark Elf woman smiled. "Stenvar supports Olfina's choice in a husband, even if her family would  _avnetar_ her, if they knew."

I assumed Jenassa meant that this Olfina's family would disown the woman, Stenvar's cousin. "Why? Who does she want to marry? Someone not Nord?"

"No, no. He is a Nord, but his family does not support the Stormcloaks. Jon and Olfina care not, either way, but their families care too much about this  _borga-_ war. I was there the day that the two of them married, in secret, in the woods. It was all so very…  _naga_. For whatever reason, the two desire to have children, but…. Well, perhaps Stenvar will return with new information."

"If they do not like how their families think, why not just leave? Live somewhere else."

"Family money," Jenassa replied. "Stenvar's parents died a long time ago, but his family here was still around. Once he was no longer in the Stormcloaks, however, and chose the life he lives now, he left all of the money. He convinced Olfina and Jon to stay, at least for now. War is upsetting enough as it is."

I leaned against the open door frame and bit my lip, pondering whether or not to ask Jenassa a burning question I'd had since the night before. The elf woman was busy cleaning her leather boots and was not paying attention to me otherwise. "Jenassa…?"

"Hmm?" she asked, eyeing the heel of one of the boots.

"Are you and Stenvar… together?"

The elf woman stopped her polishing and peered up at me with a blank expression. An instant later, her head was thrown back as she burst into laughter. "Stenvar!? Oh, my. No. No. Yes, he and I have… joined… on several occasions – nights on the road can get cold and lonely, after all – but we are not  _together._ No, no. He knows that were I ever to be with someone in that manner it would be with someone a bit… softer." Her exaggerated wink told me that she meant a woman. She then must have noticed how I was a bit squirmy, and put down her boot and gazed at me. "You know, you could punish Ingjard for last night."

I was a bit stunned. "Punish? Why would I punish her?"

Jenassa waved me into her rented room and then stood and closed the door. She turned to me and simply gazed upon me for a moment. "House-servants are not slaves," she finally began, half-sitting on the little table in the room. "They are as free as you and I. But, they are still servants, and they are sworn to protect you. They have  _agreed_  to this. It is your right, particularly as the woman of a Jarl, to demand things of your house-servant, so long as it is not something that you know will harm them or others. They will defend you and your family until their death; that is their main responsibility. Beyond this, it is for you to say what their other responsibilities are. They can cook and clean for you, for instance. Ingjard was not in your tent for a portion of last night." Jenassa cleared her throat and I thought I saw a hint of a smirk form on her lips. "You have the power to tell her not to do such a thing again, no matter the reason, if that is your wish." She stood and then returned to her bed to recommence cleaning her boots. "Now go to bed, Outlander. Tomorrow we meet with the Jarl."

. . . . . .

_I was being choked. Two strong hands were wrapped around my throat, crushing my trachea and everything else. Out of instinct, my hands flew up to grip the offending appendages. My fingers curled around the wrists, occasionally digging into the tight space between the sturdy palms and my neck._

_My attacker was behind me. We were on a bed with very soft linens. A hearth was crackling not very far from my head, but I couldn't see anything. I couldn't move my neck, and my eyes were watering. I saw only fluffy pillows. I felt my attacker's presence weighing down on me as his hands held my neck. A familiar poking drew my waning attention to my naked backside. Indeed, we were both naked._

Use your magic _, I commanded myself._

_I willed my lightning magic to muster, or for perhaps my skin to light up in a cloak of fire or ice magic – anything, really, to at least stun my attacker. I couldn't speak any magic words. I had to rely on my will to survive._

_A cry of pain was my only indication that my magic had done anything. My attacker backed away. I choked on the air rushing into my lungs. Everything burned. Tiny needle pricks in my eyes told me that some blood vessels had burst. A stiff, violent smack to my left buttock served as confirmation that I had hurt my attacker. He must not have been terribly maimed, however, for not a moment later he buried his erection inside of me to the hilt. I screamed. Hands were once again at my throat as the man pounded into me._

_The sexual assault did not last much longer. Within moments of penetrating me, the man grunted loudly in release. His hands left my throat. Fingernails dug into my flesh and raked down my back. Another brutal hand came down on my rear, and then another and another, each impact making me jump and yelp. The hands finally massaged what they had stung, however, something of an apology._

_My attacker collapsed onto the bed next to me, a panting mess. I groaned and coughed as I turned to him. He smiled weakly in his contrite contentment, a chuckling sigh huffing through his big nose. He scratched the time-faded scar on his left cheek and then wiped the sweat from his wrinkled brow. His strawberry blond hair glowed orange, reflecting the light from the hearth. For his age, the man had an impressive, muscular body, and despite somewhat despising him as a husband, I did enjoy the view of his battle scars, and the way his strawberry blond chest hair framed his Talos amulet._

" _Apologies," he muttered in his deep, barrel-chested voice. "I knew one day I would go too far. I'm just glad your magic didn't stop my heart." I watched him twist around, feel for something behind him, and then look at me. "Pull it out," he ordered._

_Still somewhat gasping for oxygen, I glared at my attacker for a moment before complying. I crawled over him, spread open his buttocks, and pulled out a shining, gold object that somewhat resembled a butt plug. I nonchalantly deposited it in front of his torso._

" _I hate that thing," I muttered._

" _You know very well that I need it."_

_I raised my right hand to my throat and let out my warm, healing magic. My neck muscles immediately relaxed and my lungs ceased burning. "You're damn lucky I can take care of myself." My voice was getting less raspy._

" _There's no one better suited for tangling with a monster." He stood from the bed and headed for our private bathing room. "Indeed," he called back, "why do you think I always take you from behind? I fear otherwise I would end up Shouted across the room." He poked his head out from the bathing room doorway. "It is not_ you _who I worry about being injured or killed."_

" _You know that you could simply Shout right back…."_

" _Hmph."_

_I grumbled and lay back on the bed. I was immensely frustrated, not having had my own sexual release._

_My loveless, political marriage was not particularly fulfilling; I was merely in it for the monetary benefits._

_My life detection spell confirmed that no palace guards were roaming the hall. Determined to find an orgasm, I threw on my dressing robe and quickly, quietly padded to my old bedroom –_ his _old bedroom. Sometimes I wondered if he was still there, watching, but my dead-undead detection magic never found any ghosts. Ironic that the room was now occupied by my personal bodyguard, a man who had made my lost love somewhat jealous._

_My knuckles rapped on the door in the secret pattern my bodyguard and I had developed. The pattern said, "It's me, and I'm horny." Moments later the door opened up to a grinning old warrior._

" _Hey, sweetheart."_

" _You always grin like an idiot when I come around," I said quietly as I leapt into the room before anyone saw me, smoothing my hand over his shaved head._

_When the door was closed and locked my bodyguard whisked me into his arms and carried me to the bed. "I wonder why that is?" he mused facetiously._

_I tapped his arm furiously. "I need to wash him off of me, first."_

_He coughed lightly. "Ehh, yeah. That'd be nice."_

_I stripped myself of my dressing robe and used a cloth to wipe myself where the High King had left his mark._

" _Sweet Mara, what'd he do to you this time?" My bodyguard's hands were immediately on my backside. It must have been red._

" _Nothing unusual, though he did choke me a bit too much. My magic told him to ease up, though. I healed myself after." He was pouting. My lover did that a lot, lately. I stared at him as I wiped clean my crotch. "What?"_

" _I regret it, yanno. Tellin' you it was a good idea to marry 'im. I thought it'd be what's best for ya…." He shook his head. "I could_ kill _'im."_

" _Don't. He's good to keep around, you know? Truly, it's fine. I'm fine." I dried myself with a towel. "Honestly… I kind of like it. I mean, I don't like never having an orgasm with him – his tongue works perfectly fine, so I don't understand why…." I sighed, and flung the towel over a drying rack. "I like the… roughness, though. I'm just glad it only happens every few months. I don't think I would survive if he had me like that more often."_

" _Whaddaya say we go slow today, then, hmm?" He smiled, and wrapped his arms around me, one hand finding a breast and the other my crotch. I felt his breath on my neck._

" _Mm, not too slow. He will wonder where I've gone."_

" _A slow quickie, then."_

_I turned around and wrapped my arms around the man's neck. "I want your artistic tongue today."_

_He smiled._

. . . . . .

My eyes darted open to an unfamiliar wood-beam ceiling. A single, small candle illuminated the room. I heard two steady sets of breathing. Cradling me from behind was a man whose smell I recognized. In front of me, on the floor, was a redheaded woman sleeping in hide underarmor.

Marcurio. Ingjard. The inn in Whiterun.

And then my dream came to my waking thoughts.

Hands on my throat. A man behind me. A consensual session of near-rape between a married couple. An affair.

" _Damn, I have fucked up dreams,_ " I whispered to myself before snuggling closer to Marcurio and finding sleep again.


	10. Kyne's Blessing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I messed up the chapter postings somehow, you guys here get chapter 10 earlier than FFnet. I hope you're not all terribly confused or anything. Whine to me if you are.

 

The next day after baths and breakfast, Jenassa took it upon herself to lead the introductions since she knew the Jarl of Whiterun well. The blond Jarl looked about the same age as Ulfric, about fifty years old, I suspected. He looked a bit silly, I thought, with a jeweled diadem on his brow. The ruby at the center of the diadem was as big as his mouth. I wondered why he wore essentially a crown, and why Ulfric had not. His choice of outfit put me off somewhat, too. He was wearing the equivalent of a vest with fur trimmings that showed off his scrawny, sinewy arms. He didn't look particularly regal to me; rather, he looked like a grown man who dressed like a teenager and wore jewelry. I then silently reprimanded myself for being judgy about someone else's fashion choices. Bad anthropologist.

As we approached the throned Jarl, I watched Jenassa give a nod in greeting to another Dark Elf woman, also dressed in leather armor. The warrior woman stood vigilant near the Jarl, and I figured her to be something like a house-servant.

"Jarl Balgruuf the Greater," Jenassa began. I watched her actions, noting her posture and such. I half-expected her to bow or even curtsey – though the latter would have been somewhat discordant for the sellsword – but she did nothing of the sort, and was simply polite with her words. "We come to you from Eastmarch with news."

"What news?" the skinny Jarl asked.

Jenassa handed the Jarl the letter from Yrsarald, but didn't wait for him to read it. "As you know, Stenvar and I," she indicated her companion, "found  _gengangiren_ in your Hold not long ago. About one week ago, we killed outlaws outside of Kyne's  _Lund_. One of them did not stay dead. He became a  _gengangir_ , and was being held in the dungeons of the palace at Windhelm. Deborah," she indicated me, "is the Champion of Meridia, and hunter of the undead."

_Mostly true,_  I said to myself.

"We believe," Jenassa continued, "that the  _gengangiren_  were all headed toward  _Muna_ -glow  _Vig,_ east of here. We have brought with us these  _frifilen_  to investigate it, and ask that you spare one or two guards of your own to come, too."

" _Muna_ -glow…," the Jarl's brow furrowed. "That place has been abandoned for hundreds of years. Why would  _gengangiren_  go there? You don't think…."

"Yes, Jarl Balgruuf," Jenassa nodded. "We believe there may be necromancers there. Thankfully, Deborah and Marcurio have battled the undead before. Deborah wields the proper magic for such a  _strag_."

"We believe Deborah is also Dragonborn," Stenvar blurted.

At that, Jarl Balgruuf's interest piqued and he sat up straight in his throne. "It was you that the Greybeards called so many months ago?"

I shook my head. "No, Jarl Balgruuf. That happened long before I took in the dragon's soul. The call was to Torug, the orc Dragonborn who killed Jarl Ulfric."

The Jarl's mouth quivered a bit at the mention of Ulfric, whether out of sadness or some other emotion, I couldn't tell. "Yes, I have heard about this orc…. News of Ulfric's death spread quickly, as you might expect. And I hear his war advisor is the new Jarl of Windhelm, despite no  _Moot_ being called nor any council being taken. But… that is another matter. Yes, I would gladly send with you some guards to investigate the  _vig._ Something that old…. It would not be very safe, and I'm well aware that outlaws use such places as hideouts. If you could  _lukas_  the place, clear it out for good, I would be grateful. And do look into this matter of the  _gengangiren_ , would you?"

"Yes, Jarl Balgruuf," Jenassa replied. "With honor."

As I feared he might, the Jarl turned to me. "Deborah, was it? Unusual name. Have you been to see the Greybeards yet?"

"No, Jarl Balgruuf, not yet. But I will, soon."

"Have you killed a dragon?"

"I helped, yes, in Windhelm. Jarl Ulfric made the killing strike, though. I took its soul into me, and heard and saw its memories. I later breathed fire as dragons do."

"And this happened the day Ulfric was killed?" Balgruuf asked.

"Yes, Jarl Balgruuf," I answered. "He was killed just after, right in front of me, Yrsarald and Galmar, and guards and some citizens. I was… recovering, still, from the dragon's soul. It was very painful. Yrsarald was helping me. Galmar and the guards were too far away to stop the orc. I…," I gagged a little at the memory of having Ulfric's remains painting my face and body. "It was… horrible." I could have said a lot more on the subject, but I figured Jarl Balgruuf didn't need to know that we thought Ulfric was a ghost, was attempting to communicate with Yrsarald, and that he was possibly knowledgeable about what had happened at Saarthal.

The Jarl and his attendants remained silent for a moment, perhaps contemplating what I had said. "The Greybeards have not yet called to you," the Jarl said, his words carrying a connotation that I could only interpret as "I'm not sure I believe you".

"No, they have not," I admitted, "but Meridia herself tells me to go up the mountain, and everyone agrees it is what I should do."

"The Daedra Lord speaks to you?"

"She does, Jarl Balgruuf."

"What does a Daedra Lord want with a Dragonborn?"

"I hate the undead as much as she and Arkay do. She needs me to hunt them, but tells me to train first as Dragonborn. I am a mage, yes, but I believe her words when she says I cannot fight the battles to come without more training."

The Jarl slouched back into his throne and stroked his long, blond beard. He then turned to Jenassa. "When do you plan to go to  _Muna_ -glow?"

"As soon as we can, Jarl Balgruuf," she answered. "We will camp just near there and then move in before first light."

"And what if you cross paths with more  _gengangiren_?" the Jarl asked.

"They do not appear dangerous or violent. When confronted, they completely ignore us. Their only goal is to reach the  _vig,_ it seems." Jenassa pressed her lips together, something I realized she did whenever she was considering something. "I believe that whatever is in the  _vig_ is more worrisome than the  _gengangiren_  themselves."

The Jarl stood from his throne and slowly paced in front of it for a few moments. "Proventus," he said while staring at the floor.

"Yes, Jarl Balgruuf?" a bald man of about sixty with delicate features and a pot belly answered. His name sounded Roman, and I figured he was an Imperial. He was standing near the Jarl but was decidedly not a guard. I figured he was a steward, like Jorleif.

"Find for me three guards who are willing and able to join this group tomorrow or the next day." As he spoke, the Jarl walked to the banquet table to poor himself some wine. "Tell them what is happening. No surprises, hmm?"

"It will be done, Jarl Balgruuf." The steward walked off into the depths of the palace.

The seven of us stood in front of the empty throne, watching the Jarl sate his thirst. Balgruuf finally spoke again a short while later. "Did you know," he said, slowly, "that the orc-Dragonborn was at Riverwood when it was destroyed?"

I wasn't sure who the Jarl was speaking to. All of us looked to one another, not sure who should answer. Thankfully, the Jarl continued without much further pause.

"He arrived after the dragon, of course," he continued, staring into his goblet. "Guards later carted the bare bones back to Adrianne and Eorlund." I wasn't sure if I was supposed to know what that meant. "I fear what might have happened to those who lived there if my Thane had not been living with them. She helped them escape; those who lived, anyway. The orc did nothing to help the villagers, nothing aside from killing the dragon. Of course we are thankful for that; the dragon could have destroyed any number of towns…." The Jarl took another sip of wine. He then turned to me. "You know, I have been there – High Hrothgar. Ulfric and I both were."

"No," I replied, "I did not know you were there, too. Do all Jarls go there?"

Obviously not, judging by Jarl Balgruuf's odd expression. "No. It is a great honor to study The Voice…." Balgruuf stared into his goblet again. "Not everyone is given the chance." He gulped down the dregs, set the silver goblet back onto the table, and walked back to his throne. The Jarl assumed a ponderous position and studied me for a moment. "We have some time yet before you leave for  _Muna-_ glow. It might benefit you to talk of the Greybeards with me, since you did not get the chance with Ulfric." Again, Balgruuf's mouth quivered. I decided the man was trying to hide his body's natural reflex to one of two emotions – contrition or elation. I knew how he felt.

"I… yes, I would like that. Yrsarald only knew a few things about the Greybeards. It would be nice to know what I can expect."

"Indeed." The Jarl peered back at me from over his tented fingers. He appeared a bit expectant, suddenly. "Well, now is as good a time as any…."

"Oh, alright," I fidgeted nervously, and looked to Marcurio.

"Your companions may remain here. They are welcome to join us for dinner, though I apologize there are not enough rooms for them to spend the night." The Jarl stood again. "We can talk somewhere more private. It is a nice day – the Great  _Verund_ will do nicely." The man offered his hooked arm to me, offering to lead me to wherever he was planning to go. I froze, however, unsure of what to do. I had no idea where the Jarl wanted to take me, and I had no idea if he was a trustworthy man or not. Anxiety threatened to take over.

I was the epitome of the socially awkward penguin.

I turned again to Marcurio, who smiled encouragingly. And then I remembered what Jenassa had said about my house-servant. Her duty was to protect me. "I ask for my house-servant, Ingjard, to join us, as well as my friend Marcurio." I turned back to the Jarl, hoping the suggestion wasn't a huge offense. I smiled to hide my frustration, though, knowing full well that I had to give an excuse that wouldn't reveal the fact that I didn't trust Jarl Balgruuf. "Sometimes I need help understanding your language, and Marcurio is good at knowing when and how to help me."  _Marcurio is also very good at acting like royalty, if need be_ , I thought to myself.  _And he can freeze your feet to the ground if you try anything._  "Ingjard will also be traveling with me to High Hrothgar. She should learn about it, too."

I feared the inevitable questions were coming. Everyone in my traveling party, including our cart driver, had learned of my origin, and I wondered how soon the entire world would follow. But the questions I had come to expect never arrived, and I was given only another questioning look.

"Very well," was all the Jarl said. He turned to the Dark Elf woman who was likely his house-servant. "Irileth," he said with a nod. He then waved us forward, and on we went up a set of stairs and eventually through two of the tallest, largest, ornate doors I'd ever seen, perhaps bigger than the doors to Windhelm's palace. When guards opened the doors, I literally gasped at the view.

What the Jarl had called a "great  _verund_ " was basically the largest, most impressive balcony in the world. Any world. The entire thing was made out of stone aside from wood planks that lined the arched overhang. White stones, inlayed between the normal grey, curved around two areas, the walkway and the dining area. The dining area was not under the arched roof, but could easily be moved there, I imagined. The view, though… the view was breathtaking. Near to the palace were rocky tundra hills, a wide, rushing river, and the occasional cluster of pine trees. In the distance were Alp-like mountains, one of which to the east dwarfing them all; it reminded me of the Matterhorn. I had seen the mountain from the north as we arrived, but it had been very hazy that day and I had not seen the entirety of it. Even now, it was partially covered by clouds. I suddenly felt an instinctive urge to whip out my camera –  _if only_ , I told myself. The palace at Windhelm boasted nothing like this balcony, nor this view, but that may have been due to the blustery winds and snow that occurred there almost daily.

I leaned on the balcony's stone parapet, gazing at the lumbering mountain to the east and landscape below. A few deer were walking leisurely along the riverbank.

"That's the Throat of the World," I heard Jarl Balgruuf say from behind me. I turned, somewhat startled by his closeness, and watched him walk up to my side to join me in taking in the view. A firm, almost warm breeze swept over the balcony, carrying with it a whiff of Balgruuf's flowery perfume. "It's a bit cloudy now," he continued, "but on the clearest days you can see High Hrothgar from here."

"How am I to go up there?" I asked him. "It looks impossible."

The Jarl chuckled. "Yes, from the west it is indeed impossible. The eastern side has steps that lead to the top. The nearest town is Ivarstead. Truly, the town's existence may be linked to the steps to High Hrothgar. Many  _ravundiniken_  pass through there, but little else. The farms there supply the Greybeards with food, though."

"How many days does the journey take?" I asked the Jarl.

"That depends on how fast you can  _klifar_. I was young, just a boy, but with my guardian I made the journey from dawn to midday."

"Is it cold?"

"Very, especially at the top, at High Hrothgar itself. But, you were living in Windhelm and, I assume, Winterhold. Whatever you wore there should be  _noga_." The Jarl turned to me then. "So, tell me, are you Thane of Windhelm?"

"Thane?" I asked, shifting my gaze from the mountain to the Jarl. "No. Why do you ask me that?"

"Because you have a house-servant." He indicated Ingjard, who had hung back a short distance with Marcurio and the Dark Elf woman called Irileth. They were all still within earshot.

"Oh, no. When Yrsarald became Jarl, he took a new house-servant because Galmar was always away, and he gave me one, too."

"Because you're Dragonborn?"

"I suppose yes. He knew I would soon travel a lot, and wanted me to be protected. The travelling came more quickly than I thought…."

"But surely you can protect yourself," the Jarl assumed. He shot me a knowing glance, one that said he already suspected the true reason Ingjard was hired for me.

I heard Marcurio clear his throat. I turned to him, and he pointed to his own left thumb.

_The ring,_ I said to myself.  _Yrsarald's ring, on Yrsarald's woman._ I turned back to Jarl Balgruuf. "Yes, I can protect myself. I have. Meridia also protects me. But more eyes and another sword do not hurt." I repeated the very words Yrsarald had said to me when justifying Ingjard's hiring. "Yrsarald insisted, because I am his companion. His  _unasta._ "

"Mm, indeed," the Jarl responded, not negatively or otherwise, simply acknowledging what he had already guessed. "I thought as much." Balgruuf then walked to his outdoor dining table and pulled out a chair for me. "Please, everyone, sit. It has been a long, long time since I talked of the Greybeards. We shall do so over food and wine."

_Thank god_ , I thought to myself. I was unusually hungry for someone who had just eaten a normal-sized breakfast, something that had been a bit of a trend over the last week. And then I realized – I could finally,  _finally_  drink wine again! I loved Flavia and I had been more than happy to fulfill my role as birth mother and feed her, but wading through the muck that had been my life as of late, all the while stone cold sober, had been nearly unbearable. I tried not to bounce in my seat as a serving girl poured wine into a silver goblet right in front of my face.

Marcurio sat across from me with Irileth to his right. Ingjard sat at my left, and Balgruuf sat at the head of the table to my right. I wondered how comfortable Ingjard could have been in her armor which was hardly meant for sitting in ornately-carved wooden chairs, but both she and Stenvar had worn their steel armor all the way from Windhelm, so I figured their hide underarmor made it comfortable enough.

"Now, first," the Jarl began as some simple foods were set before us, "you mentioned not always understanding our language." Balgruuf gazed at me, filled goblet in hand. His eyes were incredibly expressive and steadfast, boring into me like syringes ready to suck out the truth. I suddenly had the feeling that the Jarl often knew more than he let on, perhaps about many things. "Tell me if I am correct – are you the 'mage woman from the future' my Thane has told me about?"

I nearly dropped my goblet, but somehow recovered elegantly without spilling a drop. I took a moderate sip before answering. I nodded. "That is what a friend once thought I was, before, when I did not know the true words to describe myself. I believe that is also what he told his family, and his family is now here, since Riverwood burned."

"Which family is that?" he asked.

"Gerdur, and her husband Hod, and their son… ehh… Frodnar, I think."

"Yes, I have met them. They live with my Thane, in fact. Have you seen them since your arrival, here?"

"No, Jarl Balgruuf. I have not seen Gerdur since I left Riverwood a long time ago, after her brother and I—"

The massive doors to the balcony opened loudly. In walked a tall figure in leather armor, sword sheathed. Ingjard stood from the table, perhaps thinking she would need to defend me, but the approaching figure did not appear to be in any hurry to run me through. When the figure stepped out from the shadow of the overhang, I realized it was a woman. She then removed her leather helmet which obscured part of her face. When she did so, a bounty of red curls sprung free from their previous confine. The approaching woman looked just like Ingjard.

Internally, my mind was exploding in a series of figurative fireworks. Jarl Balgruuf's Thane knew about me, the "mage woman from the future". Jarl Balgruuf's Thane lived with Gerdur and her family. Eyleif was Gerdur's soon-to-be sister-in-law. Eyleif was Ingjard's sister.

Jarl Balgruuf's Thane was Eyleif.

The redhead in leather stood firm in front of the redhead in steel. Their likeness was unmistakable. Not twins, but undeniably related.

"Sister," the woman with the red curls spoke to my house-servant, her lips curving into a tiny smirk.

"Sister," Ingjard replied in form.

A second later the two redheads were arm-in-arm in a familial embrace. Eyleif. Eyleif, Eyleif, Eyleif. I felt as though I might vomit up the wine I had been absentmindedly chugging. I felt someone kick my leather boot. I looked across from me to see Marcurio giving me a wide-eyed nod that said, "stand, too, idiot." But then Jarl Balgruuf stood, and I, Marcurio and Irileth followed.

"Thane Eyleif," the Jarl addressed the woman in leather, "I am pleased you were able to come. Though, I suppose news of your sister's arrival was enough of a  _vatin_." Balgruuf then turned to me. "Eyleif,  _this_ is Deborah."

"Deborah?" Eyleif asked excitedly. She sounded exactly like Ingjard. "Ralof's friend from the future?"

"Ehh, yes…." Eyleif and I clasped forearms. "But…." I stopped myself, unsure of how to proceed. Eyleif's excited smile and bright eyes told me that I, being from the future, was something she was comfortable with, something she actually found interesting and positive, perhaps even beneficial. Our forearm clasp ended and I cleared my throat, buying myself a few more seconds. I glanced at Balgruuf to interpret his reaction. He was at least not looking terribly unpleasant. "But," I continued, "let's not tell too many people, alright? People might think the wrong thing, that I know what their own futures will be."  _Yes, good,_ I mentally patted myself on the back,  _good little liar._ I caught a glimpse of Marcurio giving Ingjard a look and then subtly shaking his head.

"That is not exactly what you said just a moment ago," Balgruuf noted.

"What?" I turned to the Jarl. "What did I say?"

"That being from the future was not the truth," he reminded me, "and that you did not know how otherwise to describe yourself."

_Fuck._ "Oh, yes. Yes. What I meant was, I was not a mage in my time, before I came to this time. Magic does not exist in my time. The idea of magic and gods was very, very confusing for me. So, for me, for the gods –  _your_  gods to bring me back in time to help them was… scary. I felt as if I was in another world, you understand. The language in my time has changed so much from yours, I had to learn. In my time, we…," I swallowed hard, "we did not even know your people ever existed, so, I cannot know your future." I withheld my relieved sigh. "Ralof," I peered at Eyleif, briefly, "was a big, big help for learning to speak this language, and read it."

Jarl Balgruuf crossed his arms. He still did not wholly believe me. "The gods brought you from the future to kill the undead?"

"Yes," I nodded.

"Why?" Balgruuf raised his hand somewhat, a familiar, questioning gesture. "Jenassa, for instance, is perfectly capable of hunting  _gengangiren_."

"Because," I expanded the lie, "Meridia saw what was happening in my time, and knew I could help, here, with my knowledge of the undead."  _Hell, if Meridia believed it…._  "And Arkay saw my marks. My tattoos," I answered, honestly, repeating again what Meridia had told me.  _Time for a white lie._  "I was fated to be here."

The Jarl's heavy gaze held fast; he rapped his fingers across his forearm. "What tattoos?"

I smiled, certainly blushing at least a tiny bit. "Apologies, Jarl Balgruuf. I cannot show you my tattoos without undressing."

Marcurio coughed, the sort of cough one feigned to cover laughter. I was cackling, myself, on the inside.

Eyleif giggled light-heartedly. "Gods, Balgruuf. What's next, will you demand she show you her painted skin?" The lover of Ralof, mother of his child turned to me with an apologetic smile. "Don't worry, Deborah." Her hand found purchase on my upper arm and gave an encouraging grasp. I nearly flinched away, but thankfully did not. "I believe you." The redhead then frowned, and her arm lowered to her side. "I hope it is true, that you are Dragonborn. The gods must have realized their mistake when they gifted that orc with the same honor. What he did to Ulfric was completely  _oretala_. That must be why the gods found you, a future Dragonborn, and brought you here to help us. They knew the orc's honor had faded, or that he never had any at all."

_Sure, why not_. "Yes, it is as you said, but… Torug, that is the orc's name, still has a purpose. Meridia says he alone can do what he was made to do, and that I cannot kill him, yet. He is too strong. We will have our revenge, though, in time. This she promised me."

"Torug…," Eyleif repeated the name. "You know, one of the villagers from Riverwood made a sketch of him. We have made copies and sent it to the other Jarls, but no one has yet seen him. I will show it to you, later, and you can tell me if it is truly the same orc. Oh!" the woman nearly exploded with whatever she wanted to tell me next, her dark green eyes flashing with joy. "You must come to my home. Gerdur will be so happy to see you again! And you must meet my son, Sighulf! It's a shame Ralof is not here right now, but he will be in not too long. I hope you can stay for a while until he gets here; he misses you!"

"Enough, Eyleif," Jarl Balgruuf said. "We were discussing High Hrothgar. We will see you at dinner."

The woman sighed a whine. "Yes, of course, Jarl Balgruuf." Eyleif smiled at me, gently grasped my forearm for a brief moment, and then gave her sister one final hug before leaving the balcony.

Ingjard turned to me, eyebrow cocked and expression failing to convey something.

Without a word, Balgruuf returned to his seat, and the four of us followed. "Where were we…?" The Jarl picked up a clump of grape-like fruit that people called "jazbays" and popped one into his mouth.

"Ehh, High Hrothgar is cold," I answered, "and I am a Dragonborn from the future."

"Well," the Jarl began, "if you are  _not_ Dragonborn, the Greybeards will know it, and we won't have to worry about any of this."

I suddenly felt defiant. "If I was not Dragonborn I would not know, understand, and speak the dragon words. Shouts, you call them. Meridia tells me I am Dragonborn as Torug is. I believe her, and I believe my own mind and actions."

A satisfied smile crept across Balgruuf's face. "Very well," he said, popping another grape into his mouth. "The Greybeards are, normally, old men, Nords, who pray to Kyne using the  _Thu'um_. The Storm Voice. These are the dragon words that make up the Shouts. What concerns me is that you said in your time, there are no gods, no magic." The Jarl leaned forward and demanded my full attention. "If you have known no gods of your own and only now know of ours, how can you properly pray to Kyne as the Greybeards do?" He shook his head. "I am also concerned, young Deborah, that the Greybeards did not call for you, and that your instructions to travel to High Hrothgar are coming from a Daedra Lord who may have her own  _jaren_. But, you wish to go, and, so, I will prepare you. I only ask that, once you arrive at High Hrothgar, that you carry with you a message from me of greetings and  _minon_."

I looked to Marcurio. "'Minon'?"

"That he remembers them with happiness," my friend responded.

"Oh." I turned back to the Jarl. "Yes, I can do that."

"Good." Balgruuf recommenced eating grapes and sipping wine interchangeably.

I myself picked up a pastry that looked like it was covered in some kind of chopped nut. It tasted amazing. I washed it down with some of the best wine I ever tasted before speaking again. "What are the Greybeards like? All I know is that they are old men. With beards."

"Quiet," Balgruuf said. "None of them speak, save two. At least that is how it was when I was there. I left the mountain to come home almost thirty years ago. If the same men are alive, then they must all be quite old. Rarely do people introduce themselves to the Greybeards,  _lysig_  that they wish to join them. I would be there now, still, if my sister had not died." He took a long, generous sip of wine.

"Why do they not speak?" I asked him.

"I suppose you felt their call, the one meant for the orc?"

I nodded. "It was like an earth-shake."

"Indeed. That is the power of their voice, their  _Thu'um_. When spoken all at once, calling out to someone, they create storms above the mountain, above Whiterun, and the ground trembles. From some of them, even a whisper is too much for our ears and the earth to bear, and so, they keep their mouths closed, using their hands to communicate, if necessary. But, if you are indeed Dragonborn, you will be able to listen to their voices and  _Thu'um_ without going  _eyrnarla_."

I turned to Marcurio. "No longer hearing," he said, somehow knowing exactly what word I had trouble with.

"Is that why, when Ulfric shouted at the dragon, I heard only thunder? It hurt my ear."

"Yes," Balgruuf answered, his facial muscles once again straining against emotion. "That is exactly what the  _Thu'um_  sounds like to the untrained ear."

I sighed, wondering if that is what I had sounded like when I had breathed fire, but none of those in attendance that day were here. I looked up at Jarl Balgruuf and pursed my lips, deliberating. "Do you want to see me shout the dragon words?"

Marcurio huffed a laugh. "I certainly do."

I smiled at my friend and then returned my gaze to the Jarl.

"Which Shouts do you know?" Balgruuf asked. "I am admittedly curious."

"I can tell you the words I know," I offered.

"Just show me," the Jarl replied gruffly.

" _Laas_ ," I breathed harmlessly. Everyone around me and several birds flying by lit up a bright red. "You cannot see what I see, though. I can see life through walls, this way. When a dragon says this word, they can even see mice underground."

The Jarl scoffed. "What do you mean, when dragons say the word? How would you know this?"

"When the dragon's soul entered me – I think it mixed with mine – I saw life as the dragon did, a memory from the recent past. I was flying as he did. That is how I learned the dragon words. But the memory faded with the pain. I no longer hear or feel him."

"What sort of pain was it?"

I thought a moment. "Truly? It was like un-birthing a child. Taking one back inside my body. But, the pain was all over, not only in my mother-stomach. Perhaps a dragon soul is no small thing."

The Jarl appeared somewhat appalled by the analogy, but nonetheless satisfied with the answer. He sipped again his wine. "The  _Thu'um_  is a gift from Kyne to her children," he uttered. "The ancient Nords knew how to use it. The ancient Nords knew what it meant. Do you feel her – Kyne – when you speak the 'dragon words'?"

My lips twitched into a small frown. "No," I admitted, "I don't know. I don't know what it should feel like to feel a goddess." I felt my brow crease as I pondered the matter. "I  _do_  know that Kyne felt sorry for me, when I was brought here. Meridia said that Kyne helped people be patient with me as I learned the language. Perhaps that is what she has done – made me, and others, patient; made me quick to learn. And…."

"And?"

I tongued a bit of crushed nut out of my teeth and sipped from my goblet before continuing. "Two things that make me curious. First, after I took the dragon's soul into me, I heard the dragon's voice inside my head until I spoke the fire word. After that, the voices went away and never returned. It is as if the dragon inside me wanted me to speak the words I learned from its soul. And, later, I spoke with Meridia again. After speaking with her, I felt…." I sighed, unsure how to describe the feeling. "I felt good. Warm…. Loved. A quick feeling that went away, fast. And then I felt dizzy. And then I felt  _hungry_." I stressed the word, complete with clenched fists and jaw. "I am  _still_ hungry. Too hungry. And, my milk has dried. I was still breastfeeding before I came here, but I have almost nothing now and it has only been two months. I was fine until that… warm, good feeling came and I got hungry." I sipped again my wine and turned to the Jarl. "Do you suppose those things are 'feeling' the goddess Kyne?"

Balgruuf's eyes were for once expressing surprise. Slowly, his brow lowered and his head bobbed in a slow nod. "Indeed. Indeed. Well, I can't say I have ever heard a dragon's voice in my mind, of course, but I am familiar with that feeling. The warm, loved feeling. It did not make me hungry, though, but very energetic." The Jarl smiled and his gaze shifted to dead space, as if he was remembering something fondly. "I felt it most when I was younger; I would run around High Hrothgar, making my guardian crazy."

"Kyne's Blessing," Ingjard murmured. I turned to her. "Her blessing. It… makes one feel stronger, and yes, more energetic. Almost like drinking a  _gathal_ potion."

"And it can make someone hungry?" I asked her.

She shrugged. "It is possible."

I silently wondered if Kyne's "blessing" stole Flavia's milk from my breasts. I turned back to Balgruuf. "Anyway…. No, Jarl Balgruuf, I don't think I feel the goddess when I speak the dragon words, but I do know that my body wants me to speak them."

I stood then from the table, picked up an apple from a silver bowl, and walked over to the parapet. I set the apple on the edge of the wall, and turned to make sure the Jarl, Irileth, Marcurio and Ingjard were watching. I then noticed the two guards posted on either side of the overhang were also looking on.

I had never used the third dragon shout I knew, the one that started with the word  _fus_ , force. The phrase  _Fus Ro Dah_  made the earth and even dragons tremble – this I had witnessed. I wondered what only the first word would do to a harmless apple.

I positioned myself in such a way that everyone watching could see me and what I was doing, but so that whatever I was about to shout only hit the apple. I briefly worried that the power of whatever was about to happen would ruin the parapet, but convinced myself the notion was silly.

Standing removed from everyone, I looked down from the balcony and saw no one beneath us. I didn't want to send an apple plummeting from the heavens only to knock someone unconscious. I took several steps back from the parapet, taking deep breaths as I did so.  _Remember to actually shout_ , I told myself.

One. Two. Three. After my fourth breath I shouted the simple word at the innocent apple. In my own ears I could hear the word clearly –  _fus –_ but the reverberation from the shockwave that the shout created made the balcony tremble, if only a little, and I heard a distant rumbling. I watched the small red apple fly away from me until gravity took hold and it curved down and out of sight. I ran to the parapet to follow its path, but we were too high up for me to see where it had landed.

I turned grinning to the onlookers, only to have my triumph wiped clean by their pained expressions. Their hands were planted on their ears, but only Balgruuf was more annoyed than astonished. Marcurio looked like he had just shit his pants.

Jarl Balgruuf lowered his hands and nodded, slowly. "Alright, Dragonborn from the future, I believe you. But… don't do that again, here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, traveling to the "vig", and Deborah finally realizes she's been holding herself back.
> 
> If anyone is curious about Deborah or has any burning questions, she now has her own RP/Ask blog at: childofakatosh DOT tumblr DOT com. Ask her anything!


	11. Denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The immensely perfect feels song for this chapter (the latter part of the third section) is Sara Bareilles "Once Upon Another Time". If this story was a musical or a Disney movie, Deb would totally have broken out in song right then. And she wouldn't have been tone-deaf, either.
> 
> Oh, and has anyone caught any of my hints to a certain something, yet? Or, well, certain somethings. Honestly, they're writing themselves, these sneaky little tidbits of information hinting towards things. I'm wondering if anyone (who has not been beta-reading for me…) has picked up on them yet…. I can think of two things, one major, one minor...

"Deborah!" Gerdur opened her arms wide to me and I gladly gave her a sisterly hug.

"Oh, Gerdur, it is so nice to see you. I'm so sorry about your home."

"Thank you," she said, backing away, "but we survived. Old Hilde, Sigrid, Lucan and Embry didn't make it, though."

"Sigrid? Oh, no. Is Dorthe alright?"

"Yes. Sad, but doing well with her father. Everyone either moved here or to Ivarstead. We were lucky that Eyleif was with us. She helped so many people, that day. The stress was so great that she went into labor the next morning inside the palace where we all slept on the floors. She's upstairs, now, feeding Sighulf."

"I'll be down in a moment!" I heard Eyleif call from upstairs in what was seemingly her usual sing-song demeanor.

Gerdur chuckled. "She has good hearing. You know," she said quietly, "I was surprised when Eyleif came to Riverwood with child. I had no idea my brother had a lover. Being honest," she smiled warmly at me and lowered her voice to a whisper, "I thought you and Ralof would end up together." She shrugged. "But I heard a rumor that you are with Windhelm's new Jarl. Shame about Ulfric…. I can only hope that the Stormcloaks can get past this. Ralof spoke well of Yrsarald; I know he'll be a great Jarl."

"Rumor travels very fast, it seems," I said.

"Of course it does… Dragonborn." Gerdur grinned at me.

At that moment, Eyleif, full of grace, practically floated down the simple wooden staircase, baby boy in tow. "Deborah!" The redhead's grin was horribly infectious. She was no longer wearing her leather armor, but had changed into a rather plain red linen dress, much like the ones Gerdur usually wore. "I heard you Shout from Dragonsreach!" She giggled. "You woke up Sighulf." She bounced the gurgling cherub in her arms. "Here, hold him!"

"I—"

"Oh, it's alright," Eyleif insisted, planting the baby in my arms. "Just think of him as a tiny human." She booped Sighulf's button nose. "I'll be right back; have to check on my stew." Ralof's intended pranced to the cooking pot and began humming a pleasant tune. The woman could do everything, it seemed.

I sighed and peered down at Ralof's son. The little munchkin was no doubt the catalyst for not only Eyleif leaving the Stormcloaks, but for disclosing her relationship with Ralof to her higher-ups as well as her and Ralof's families. "He looks just like him, doesn't he?" I said aloud, forcing myself to accept the squishy reality in my arms.

"He does," Gerdur confirmed.

As I stared into the infant's velvet blue-grey eyes, I was actually happy. My left thumb, bearing Yrsarald's golden, shimmering ring, caressed Sighulf's cheek, and even though the boy in my arms looked just like his father, the Adonis of Skyrim, all I could think about was Yrsarald.

"I want one," I murmured, garnering a wide, open-mouthed smile from mini-Ralof.

**. . . . . .**

Two days after arriving in Whiterun, we set out east toward the  _vig,_ which I finally learned was something like a fortress, or even a small castle. The fortress we were to investigate the next day was called  _Muna-_ glow, the name of which I still didn't fully understand, but I was fairly certain that  _muna_ meant something like "evil" or "cruel".

Our team consisted of Jenassa, Stenvar, Ingjard, Marcurio, myself, the Stormcloak reserves Nafrik and Fjalar, the Whiterun guards Selina, Soring and Jorik – a Redguard woman and two Nord men – and Jenassa's friend Amren – a Redguard man. I learned that Amren was a sellsword too, and often accompanied Jenassa on jobs before she teamed up with Stenvar and spent less time in Whiterun Hold. Selina and Amren were both very dark in complexion, and both of them wore their hair in styles not common in Skyrim. Selina was a strange combination of both dainty and fierce; she was petite and sinewy, and boasted seven gold-loop piercings, one on her nose and the rest on her ears. Her hair was clumped in a tangle of dreadlocks which hung down to her shoulders, but she kept them out of her face with a leather thong. Amren had a mostly-shaved head, but sported cornrows down the center. I only later learned that Amren was Selina's brother, and that he had gotten her the job as a city guard. Even if no one had told me the two were related I might have guessed – Amren had bright grey eyes, and Selina a pair of silvery ones.

Since the distance to the fortress was not far, we traveled on foot, and five horses belonging to the Stormcloaks and the Whiterun city guards carried our supplies: tents, food, water, weapons, potions, and empty sacks for loot – the latter being Stenvar's idea.

Along the way, I spotted something odd by the side of the road. "Hold," I said, breaking from the group and heading to my right. Ingjard, ever vigilant, was not far behind. Marcurio followed too.

"What is it?" I heard Jenassa call.

"Just wait," I replied, and kept walking. I was certain my eyes did not lie to me, that I had seen something very out of place. Sure enough, hiding in the shin-height tundra prairie grass was a familiar object - a hand-sized white rectangle with red symbols.

_Eight of hearts._

I picked up the playing card. The reverse, in red, depicted two angels riding bicycles. Bicycle brand playing cards. The material was stiff, and however stained by rain and dirt, was relatively new with no frayed edges. It had been made in the last decade, at the very least. It had somehow hitched a ride from Earth.

"What is that?" Ingjard asked.

I looked around for the remaining fifty-one cards. "It's… from my world."

"It is?" Marcurio approached and took the card from me. "What are these symbols?"

"The number eight, and eight hearts."

"Eight hearts?" Marcurio stared at the card again. "This is how you draw hearts?"

"Yeah. How do you draw a heart?"

He scoffed. "We don't. Have you ever seen a heart? They're a big lump of flesh, not like this. This looks more like…," he chuckled, "someone bending over."

I coughed a little, but smiled. "Eh, yes, actually, I think that may be the origin. I can't remember."

"How do you think it got here? Is this where you were with the outlaws?"

"No. No. I don't know why it's here. I wasn't carrying any of these."

"What exactly is it?" Ingjard asked, peering at Marcurio's hands.

"A… piece of paper, one of," I tried to remember the number words, "fifty-two. They are used in games. Sometimes games using money."

"For  _faretispig_? Interesting." Marcurio handed the card back to me.

I stared at the card as we headed back in line with the others who were then far ahead of us. "I wonder if this came with someone."

"Someone else from your world?" Marcurio asked.

I nodded. "Someone else from my world."

. . . . . .

Just as Jenassa had said we would, we set up camp just out of sight of the fortress. When the sun had set, Jenassa, Marcurio and I cased the outside area, never traveling too close, all the while searching for signs of life or unlife. Jenassa, I learned that night, was an adept scout, particularly at night. I noticed that unlike Stenvar she moved silently, and her brown leather armor and dark grey-teal skin made her nicely camouflaged against the moonlit, green tundra landscape. Marcurio and I wore cloth mage's robes, allowing us to move silently as well.

I was ever-thankful that spells made no noise when cast if no magical words or incantations were used.

Because Marcurio and I were still going to need our magical energies the next day, I told him to hold off on casting anything, particular detection magic which was usually quite draining. Instead, I used my favorite dragon word, the whispering  _laas_ , to see life and unlife beyond walls, under the dirt, and in the far off hills. How I wished Jenassa could see what I saw, but that would have defeated the purpose of a covert reconnaissance mission. I then wondered what people would think if they suddenly saw their own bodies glowing red or purple, and I had to suppress my giggle.

While we trekked east of Whiterun, Jenassa had taught all of us her hand signals, much like I'd seen in military movies. We had practiced on our traveling party, and on deer and foxes and rabbits as we passed them. I had no idea what the norm was for my world, except for the signal for "look/I see" – pointing to one's own eyes – which, if the movies didn't lie, was apparently a universal gesture. Since I was the one using the near-silent dragon word to see through walls, Jenassa made me the actual scout. I was the one who had to speak, see, point, and gesture to the others what I was pointing at. Self-explanatory, holding up fingers indicated the number of people, or rather people-shaped red fogs that I saw. If there were ever more than five in one area that I could see, I was supposed to form a circle with my left hand fingers and then hold up one-through-five digits to indicate how many groups of ten there were. Anything more than thirty in one area, Jenassa had explained, was out of the question for our small gang to approach, and we were to retreat. The signal for that was a rough, jerking gesture of my left hand over my left shoulder.

Jenassa had several unconventional signals that were necessary for this particular place. Though with magic or  _laas_  I couldn't tell the difference between mage, warrior or otherwise, different tactics were understandably necessary for defenses against magic. If the person in the lead saw what looked like a mage, the hand signal was a thumb pointing down. If there were warriors, the thumb would point up, indicating a sword or other weapon. If an archer was seen ahead, the thumb pointed sideways. Though  _laas_ could not decipher between the alive and the undead, magic could. If the enemies ahead were known to be alive, a hand would be held up and the fist clenched and unclenched three times, indicating a beating heart. For the undead, a fist would be raised and held. I was not comforted by the fact that Jenassa had a specific hand signal for  _sothnaten,_ or "blood-eaters". I knew what that meant. The signal for a vampire, which would give off a magical undead glow but look like a human, elf or otherwise, was two hooked fingers, similar to mimicking rabbit ears.

Everything else was intuitive: stop, hand flat against an invisible wall behind me; come forward, repeatedly bending my fingers forward with my left hand held over my shoulder, palm up; something big, hand held flat, up high; something small, hand held flat, down low.

As Jenassa, Marcurio and I stalked near the fortress, taking cover behind boulders, bushes or tree trunks, I tested out hand signals. Jenassa told me that it was fine to use my life or undead detection, just once, to practice, and she let Marcurio do it once, too.

I breathed my life-seeking dragon word. I pointed to my eleven o'clock. I cast the life detection spell.  _I see… one… alive… mage._ Aided by the moonlight I could see that the figure was a human dressed in black _._ Jenassa and Stenvar told me most necromancers and indeed most non-college-attending mages dressed in black robes. They didn't know why, but suspected that black robes were cheaper and easier to come by.

We slinked around the fortress at a generous distance and ducked behind a rise in the earth. It was Marcurio's turn to scout. He cast both detection spells at the same time, briefly. He pointed to our three o'clock.  _I see…._ Slight pause.  _Four... undead._

 _Four!?_ I screamed internally. I breathed " _laas"_ to see it for myself. Sure enough, four tall figures were shambling forward, just as the undead outlaw had inside his cell. I kept repeating the dragon word, following the red foggy forms until they walked well past us, then down, and then into the depths of the fortress. Just as Stenvar and Jenassa had expected, more brain-dead undead people were being called to the fortress.

_Wonderful._

We continued around the perimeter of the fortress, me breathing the detection "Shout" as we went. I saw one more figure on a tall turret. I pointed in its direction.  _One… mage._ We were lucky that the night was clear. Whenever there were no clouds, Skyrim's skies glittered with innumerable near and far stars – or, rather, large and small holes in the sky. A bright, clear sky and two moons meant more than enough light to see at least basic features.

Satisfied that there were no further targets to identify, we headed back to camp. Stenvar and Amren were circumambulating the area, continuing their watch. The Stormcloaks would take second watch, and the Whiterun guards, the third.

"Well, that was terrifying," I declared as we sat in a circle around a very, very small campfire. Thankfully the weather in this area of the country was relatively warm, and a large fire was not needed.

"Are you kidding?" Marcurio asked with a laugh. "That was  _ressa_. My heart is still racing!"

"Yes, exactly," I muttered. "Heart racing is nothing fun, or whatever 'ressa' means."

"It means," Jenassa explained, "a combination of 'exciting' and 'pleasing' with a bit of fear." The elf woman turned to Marcurio. "Do not get too excited; there will be many more inside the fortress, for sure."

"Don't remind me," I grumbled.

Jenassa smirked at me, and then stood. "You two," she said sternly to me and Marcurio, "need to go to bed. Now. You need all of the sleep you can get." She made to walk towards Stenvar, but stopped herself, and turned back to us. "Sleep under the stars tonight," she said with a light air to her voice, and then walked away to join Stenvar in his circular route.

I turned to Marcurio. "Stars? Why? We have tents, and it is not very warm. And there are probably bugs this far south." I hated bugs.  _Hated_ them. Almost as much as zombies.

My friend smiled and took my hand, leading us back to our tent. "It is… a legend, but perhaps with truth to it. I can't say for sure…." He leaned into the tent, grabbed our bedrolls, and laid them out near the campfire. We sat down, facing one another. "There were…  _are_  these pools of water,  _spra_ all across Cyrodiil…." Nafrik handed us each a bowl of lukewarm stew and an apple. I frowned at the meager meal; I was faint from hunger. Marcurio swallowed some stew before continuing. "The water inside these pools takes into them the power from the stars – magic. Because… and I know you don't believe us when we say this, but… stars are indeed holes in the sky, piercing through Oblivion all the way to Aetherius. The magic in these waters is refilled overnight. Yes, our own magical energies refill overnight while we sleep, just as our normal energy, but it is thought – not proven, mind – that sleeping directly under the stars can give a mage even more powerful magic the following day, or perhaps deeper reserves."

I stared at my friend as I chewed my bland stew. "I don't believe that can be true," I said, plainly, "but, perhaps the natural laws of the world here are not the same as in mine."

Marcurio shook his head. "I refuse to believe that stars are balls of bright, hot air, similar to what passes through our bodies after a big meal. That makes no sense at all."

"Think of them like those white-hot balls of light that Savos makes around the college," I said to him. "I bet they are similar."

"Those balls are  _magic_ , not body-air."

"Whatever…," I grumbled.

Marcurio chewed, and watched me, expectant. "What?" he asked.

"What, what?"

"Whatever… what?"

"What? Nothing. It is just a thing said in my world when I don't agree but I don't want to argue anymore."

"A thing said? An  _ordrik_?"

"Yeah, I suppose." I shrugged and finished my stew, and then started on my apple.

A long moment passed before Marcurio spoke again. "Well, you're in a  _skaflin_ , aren't you…."

Crunch. Chew. Chew.

"You are different from before," Marcurio muttered under his breath.

"Hmm?"

"Ever since I've been back, ever since the dragon attack I suppose, you've been different."

"How?"

"You're…." Marcurio picked something out of his teeth. "You change, quickly, from happy to sad. You're angrier."

Chew. Swallow. "I have things to be angry about."

"Yes, I understand that. But are you angry with me?"

"What? No. Why would I be?"

"I don't know, Deb." He put down his empty bowl. "If you're scared—"

"IF!?" I scoffed, and tossed my apple core well beyond the campfire's glow. I sighed. "I'm still hungry."

"There's more food in our tent. But, Deb," he grasped my hands, but I jerked away.

"Don't, I'm sticky from the apple."

"I don't mind, Deb."

"I do!" I yelped much louder than necessary as I stood and stomped over to our tent to search for my bag of dried beef. I grabbed a few strips and ate them quickly as I stomped towards a nearby creek to wash my hands and then find somewhere to do my business.

"Where are you going?" I heard Ingjard call from behind me.

"Pee," I answered, hoping to shake the woman off my back.

"If you don't mind, Dragonborn, I will be close behind, just in case."

" _Why can't everyone just fuck right off!?_ " I blurted in English.

"What?" Ingjard asked.

I sighed. "Nothing. Nothing…."

I wasn't sure why I was so grumpy. Marcurio was absolutely right; I was moody, angry, short-tempered and selfish with a few moments of content or happy thrown in. I wondered if it was related to my milk drying up, or those waves of warm-and-fuzzies that I had been feeling lately. Or, I told myself, perhaps I was simply stressed out, and I didn't want to do any of this. At all. Ever. I wanted to sit on a sofa and snuggle with Yrsarald until I was shriveled and grey.

I knew that talk of stars, whether balls of gas or holes in the sky, was one of the topics that really got me going. As I washed my sticky hands, it hit me.

" _Homesick,"_ I murmured to myself. Arguing about physics and logic and science made me terribly, painfully homesick. Balls of gas I understood. Well, mostly. Balls of gas were normal, though, and known. Red dwarfs, supernovas…. They made at least a modicum of sense. But holes in the sky that let magic seep down unto the earth from heaven? It was probably bullshit, just another unscientific explanation of the universe. I'd learned about enough of such beliefs to recognize one when I heard it.

This bout of homesickness was different from the rest. I no longer cared about toilet paper – no, no, I still missed that. But I no longer cared about coffee and chocolate and email and smartphones and deodorant. I still missed my family and friends and dog, but the pain of separation was becoming less acute as the months passed. The thing I began to miss more than anything from my world was the  _lack_ of anything supernatural. This was not a new desire, but it currently outweighed all the rest.

 _Yes_ , I admitted to myself.  _I am scared shitless._ I thought that I wouldn't be. I thought that after my burst of self-confidence from breathing fire like a dragon and then watching that apple fly from the balcony, I would suddenly be a different person. But, no. No amount of magic would ever change the fact that I was completely lacking confidence in myself. I then realized that before tonight, I was happy because I was subconsciously in denial. Zombies didn't  _actually_ exist. I would  _never_  have to fight one. I would  _never_  meet a necromancer, because that would be ridiculous. These things  _couldn't_ exist.

Denial. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. I thought I had reached stage five, but during the last few days I had reverted to stage one, and I was currently on my way to stage two. Or, more likely, I was experiencing a mix of all five emotions, still mourning the loss of my mundane, natural Earth life and still unsure how to cope. A sob escaped me as my shoulders sank.

And then another epiphany hit me while I was peeing – I was being co-dependent. Perhaps in general somewhat, but particularly with Yrsarald. When all of the shit in my life here in this world was going down, Yrsarald was there.

When I was arrested with Wuunferth under false accusations, Yrsarald was the first person to throw a fit, demanding for the both of us to be released. While I was helping with the investigation of The Butcher, Yrsarald was there, holding my hair as I vomited from the grotesqueness. For my first encounter with Meridia, Yrsarald was at my side, tending to my fever. When I had my first major "zombies and necromancers exist!?" panic attack, Yrsarald carried me to my bed, and held me until I fell asleep. Yrsarald sent me gifts and care packages while I was at the college, worrying about my stockpile of lady products and inkpots. When I gave birth to Flavia, Yrsarald let me squeeze his hands way too hard. When I absorbed the dragon's soul into mine and was hunched over and crying out in pain, Yrsarald was holding me.

And now he was miles away, and I was peeing in the woods.

I was again washing my hands in the creek when I gazed upon my left hand, watching the water run over the shimmering gold ring. The moonlight gave it an eerie too-blue glow.

" _Once upon another time…,_ " I uttered in English. I vaguely remembered a song by a woman whose name I always forgot, the lyrics to which, if my memory was accurate, were oddly appropriate for how I was feeling. " _Homesick,"_ I mused.  _What were the lyrics?_  I asked myself.  _Something about Jeff Buckley and cigarettes and bicycles._ " _God, my memory sucks._ "

I walked back to the camp, knowing that Ingjard was just a few paces from me the entire time. Once I was back in the circle of tents, Ingjard crawled into hers, seemingly content that I wouldn't drop dead while she slept.

I sat back down next to Marcurio. He was stoking the tiny fire. "I'm sorry," I said quietly. "It is not you I'm upset about."

"I know," he said. "The problem is that you're still not fully here."

"What?"

"You're still somewhat in your own world, thinking the way you used to think."

I turned to my friend, the genius. I looked away again. "Yes, that is exactly the problem. Yes."

"No magic. No dragons. No undead. No holes in the sky."

A tiny, huffing laugh vibrated in my chest. I dragged my bedroll closer to Marcurio's and snuggled up beside him. He maneuvered us in such a way that my head ended up in his lap, looking up at him, and at the holes in the sky. "I thought I was doing well," I mused. "I am a good mage, and I know many spells. I can even say a few dragon words without training. I was feeling very strong."

"You are doing very well," Marcurio encouraged me.

"You're right, though, about me still being in my own world, in my mind. I am thinking in ways that I would have, there. This is natural for me, of course. I still try to explain and understand things as if there was no magic, no gods. In my world, it is a  _joke_ to explain something with magic. Like, 'how did you do that!?', and we say, 'with magic!', but we all know it is a joke, because there is no magic. In my world, to explain something in that way – done with magic or by gods – is seen as lazy, having a lazy mind. It is very easy to say 'a god made the world', because, then, you don't have to think about how the world truly was made, why it exists. Here, though… there are gods. I have seen and spoken with them. Well, with Meridia. Gods and Daedra Lords…." I sighed. "I need to stop thinking that there are no holes in the sky."

"You need to believe in yourself, Deb. Meridia would not have chosen you if she did not think you were able to do what she wants you to do."

I gazed at the holes in the sky for a while, contemplating their physics. I then raised my left hand, and watched the magic shimmer across the surface of Yrsarald's ring. "I think a big problem is this," I said, sticking out my thumb. "It's Yrsarald. I am so glad he is in my life – more happy than I can even say – but I think I have become… that I now need him with me to feel confident. He was always there for me… every big, big thing in my life except for Saarthal. Everything, even before we were together. I want him here, now. But, he knew I might, and so he gave me this ring." I had told Marcurio about the ring while on the road to Whiterun, but he had already known about the planned gift. My sneaky boys. Bird hadn't seemed to have known, but I wondered if he had, too. "But," I continued, "I have you here, and I am glad for that."

"Not just me. You have a whole group of friends and people to help and protect you."

"They are not all here to protect me. That is Ingjard's job. The rest are here to help everyone."

Marcurio smiled. " _I'm_ here for you,  _and_  for the adventure." He lowered his voice. "Stenvar will definitely not let anything happen to you, I can tell you that much."

"I thought I told you two to go to sleep?" Jenassa was looming over us, acting the mother hen.

Marcurio and I chuckled, but obeyed like good little children. We laid our bedrolls adjacent to one another's and snuggled up close, sharing two blankets.

. . . . . .

_The wind battered my face. I was flying through the air, watching the world speed by beneath me. Dressed in furs, I was comfortably warm. The dragon I was sitting on was grey-white. I was sat behind his wings, between two small boney spikes that ran down the length of his back. A leather strap wrapped around the dragon's body and was tied over my legs. I watched as his tattered wings flapped in the wind and then stayed level, letting his body soar on an air current._

_I watched as my gloved hands untied the buckle of the thick leather strap._

" _Fade into spirit, I bind!" I shouted, and then leapt from the dragon, falling with gaining speed to the earth. My eyes caught a glimpse of my dangling, translucent feet._

_I rematerialized just before I landed in Stenvar's arms._

" _Hey, sweetheart."_

I bolted upright awake. I had the sensation of falling just before, but when I saw people standing nearby, chatting, I knew I was alright, as no one was watching me anxiously.

 _Falling._ I forced myself to remember the dream, something I sometimes had difficulty doing. I never did start a dream journal, Yrsarald's suggestion.  _Falling. Dragon. Fading. Stenvar._

_Stenvar._

As I walked to the creek to do my morning business, I stole a glance at the old sellsword. He had appeared in my last odd dream, too. At least I thought it was him, the man I was having an affair with. I figured the dreams weren't premonitions. Ulfric, the man I thought I was married to in the last dream, was dead, and therefore I couldn't marry him.  _No_ , I reassured myself,  _they are not premonitions._ I shook my head, and continued on my way to the creek.

. . . . . .

While Marcurio and I had slept, Jenassa and Stenvar formed a plan of attack, and informed our entire party over breakfast. It was not yet dawn – we wanted to attack before first light – and it felt very odd to be awake at what was probably the equivalent four in the morning. I still didn't know how many hours there were in a day, here; that kind of time was not tracked.

Thankfully, I had remembered to pack my favorite morning wake-up tea.

The first stage of the plan was to clear the outer areas of the fortress and do so as silently as possible. This meant no exploding runes, and no shouting or screaming. Jenassa and Selina were going to attempt to take down sentries or guards silently with arrows. This was also apparently the plan of attack for the entire fortress, when possible. I was to use my whispering dragon word often, as it did not tire me at all. Marcurio and I were to switch off using detection magic. Then, when it was known what was waiting for us in a new area, Jenassa and Selina would silently take out one or two targets with arrows. If more than two people or creatures were in the room, Stenvar, Amren, the Stormcloaks and the Whiterun guards would rush in to take care of what was left. Otherwise, the infantry, as I thought of them, would hang back. Their armor created too much clanking for a stealth approach.

Aside from detection magic and healing as needed, Marcurio and I would use spells sparingly. If and only if it was determined that a fire or lightning rune were necessary, I was allowed to cast them. I figured that, even though my lightning rune was stronger than my fire rune, I would only use fire, as lightning would be useless against the undead.

Rune magic was one of my favorites. I had become quite proficient in the spells during my time at the college, though my frost rune was quite weak and would really only annoy a target rather than kill it. Runes were interesting in how they were cast. Voiced words were usually necessary, at least for me, though a whisper was sufficient. The words needed were elven, just like the word I learned for spells like Magelight. Apparently, elves were traditionally, even racially adept at casting spells, and mages appreciated and respected this fact by using their words. Since magic apparently came from the gods, I wondered if that meant elves were naturally closer, in some manner, to the gods, or to Aetherius.

There were two categories of each type of rune – all-inclusive, and specific. Runes meant to react to specific people were very difficult to cast, but I knew that I could do it. I had to be very, very careful, however, if I ever cast the easy all-inclusive rune, as triggering it could kill me and anyone else near it.

The elven word for "fire" was  _molag_ , "frost"  _mafre_ , and "lightning" was  _bellatta._  To cast a general, all-inclusive rune, one would utter or think the following phrase first:  _a var dagon_ ("I cast destruction"). The caster would then utter or think  _as_ , "by", and then the word for one of the three destruction types. Then followed the phrase indicating all-inclusive or specific, which for the all-inclusive rune was simply  _niis mitta_  ("all enter"). The specific runes were far more complicated. One had to be paying very close attention to their target, even if under duress. The magic runes could, indeed,  _only_  attack specific targets despite who was standing around it. To do this, you had to magically attach the rune to its target. Not physically, as the rune would still be cast upon the ground, or a wall, but the attachment was a metaphysical one. To do this, the caster must concentrate on the target, or type of target – draugr, for instance – and then utter or think  _dagonya_  ("your destruction"). The final word spoken or thought would be  _sino_  or  _mino_  ("here" or "there") depending on where you wanted the rune cast. If you said  _sino_ , the rune would be cast underneath you; this was only useful for committing suicide, unless your targeted spell worked. If you said  _mino_  and pointed to a location, the rune would be cast there.

If I wanted to cast a lightning rune at a specific target away from me and my ground, I would concentrate on the target, find a surface on which to cast the rune, and then whisper, " _A var dagonya as bellatta mino._ " The area where the rune was cast would glow, faintly, with foreign symbols – Daedric letters, I was told – and depending on the type of rune cast, a different symbol would glow in the middle of the encircling letters. I forgot what the actual letters that glowed with the magical rune spell meant. I had written them down in my college journal ages ago, but the words were in the Daedric language, and learning Norren and Elvish was hard enough as it was. If I remembered correctly, the symbols around the edge stood for types of runes that could be cast, but I wasn't entirely sure.

As we had the night before, I used  _laas_  to find targets, and Marcurio and I switched off between casting detection spells. He had decided to cast only a life detect spell, and suggested that I cast only the undead or dead detection spell, only because I was Meridia's Champion. When it was confirmed to Jenassa and Selina, our archers, what we had spotted – one alive mage, two o'clock, on a turret; one alive mage, ten o'clock, on the ground – Jenassa looked to Selina and pointed to herself, then to the turret, and then to Selina and to the ground in the direction of the other mage. Both of our archers then notched an arrow, aimed carefully, and loosed.

Jenassa had brought with her a large vial of poison. The stuff was tar-like, green-black, and stunk like a rotting corpse. Over the evening, she had dipped into the substance every arrow she and Selina carried. Apparently, the poison was quick-acting and excruciatingly painful, but not deadly. Not unless the arrow was embedded in a vital organ, anyway. The poison, combined with Jenassa's keen sight – something she credited her elven heritage for – made for a lethal sniper technique. Selina was no worse a shot, though.

The sentry-mage that Jenassa felled stumbled from the turret and dropped to the ground. I breathed  _laas_  again, and watched as the red fog faded from the mage's corpse. If the mage had lived, he or she would have been in terrible pain, and one of our melee group members would have made the final blow. Marcurio confirmed that the mage on the ground was also now dead; the hand signal for that was a point towards the target and a slicing motion across the throat.

Marcurio and I both confirmed that no other beings alive or unalive were on the surface. Whispering commands, Jenassa ordered the Stormcloaks and Whiterun guards to dead-check, or  _dathtrigjar_ the bodies and loot anything useful, and the rest of us would search the area for an entrance to the fortress.

A waving sword. That was Stenvar's signal for us to gather. Marcurio, standing next to Stenvar, had cast Magelight over the area, allowing us to see them clearly. It was a good a signal as any - Stenvar had found an entrance to the fortress. From what I could see from a short distance, the entrance curved in and down from ground level. I recalled that this was where I had seen those four undead people walk towards the night before.

Jenassa and I, with Ingjard trailing close behind, advanced toward Stenvar and Marcurio. The Whiterun guards, to my right, were doing the same. Soring was carrying what looked like a lightly-weighted linen sack, no doubt filled with something valuable taken from the dead mage. The Stormcloak reserves, to my left, had climbed to the top of a somewhat-dilapidated rampart and were heading toward the turret from which the other mage had fallen, perhaps thinking to get a good view of the area. I figured they had simply missed Stenvar's signal, but we weren't supposed to talk above whispers, so yelling for them to get down was out of the question.

I shrugged and continued onward with Jenassa, down the curving stone steps, toward a wooden door.

No one foresaw the explosion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES a cliffhanger…
> 
> Up next, into Fellglow Keep!


	12. Ruin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I truly apologize for this and the following chapter being ALMOST a quest narration. This area, Fellglow Keep, is where one goes to retrieve stolen books for Urag. The quest, however, is shallow, and has no known reason for existing beyond introducing the player to the three topics that are addressed in the stolen books. Because the plot of this quest ties in nicely to this story, I made up a little headcanon for the quest characters and, well, its reason for existing. As I have done previously, I will try to switch up the flow of this quest in my narrative as much as possible to be different, at least somewhat, from the in-game quest. At the very least, this chapter arc will offer closure to an open-ended mystery that the game does not. I hope that is enough to make you want to read it!

 

My ears were ringing. The sound from the explosion must have traveled down into the curving stairwell where Jenassa, Stenvar, Marcurio, Amren, Ingjard and I all stood. I remained huddled over where I was near the door. Ingjard had used herself as a human shield, hovering over me, one arm holding me to her and the other using her actual steel shield to cover part of both of our bodies. When the rumbling stopped, Ingjard slowly stood, and let me do the same. I looked behind us to see Jenassa and Amren, who both carried shields, doing the same to Stenvar and Marcurio. The Whiterun guards were not in the stairwell, and neither were the Stormcloak reserves.

Satisfied it was safe to emerge from the stairwell, Jenassa and Amren were the first to leave, and the rest of us followed. Immediately it was obvious that the turret was what had exploded, but there was no indication as to how. No smoke, no fire, just a crumpled heap of stone and wood.

And then I recalled who had been there. The Stormcloak reserves.

I ran to the rubble as fast as my feet would carry me. I heard someone following me and I figured it to be Marcurio. Right away I recognized Nafrik's blond braid and scruffy face, but his chest and waist were obscured by a pile of stone.

"Here!" I heard Marcurio whisper-scream. I wondered why he didn't just simply shout, as the explosion likely already alerted anyone inside the fortress to activity going on above.

Marcurio had found Fjalar. He was alive, as was evident by muted cries of pain coming from the man.

I knelt in front of Nafrik's head. Not wanting to wait to heal him in case he was alive and just unconscious, I placed my right palm on the top of his head and let my healing magic glow. With my left hand I tried to find his carotid. I poked around for a good minute before I was convinced he was dead. I realized I had been biting down too hard on my own teeth, practically grinding the two surfaces together, and forced myself to stop. I held a finger under the man's nostrils to convince myself further that there was nothing to be done. I swallowed hard, and thrust myself to my feet to run over to where Fjalar had fallen.

"His leg's crushed," Marcurio said. Indeed, a pile of rubble had landed on the man's left leg. Steel or no steel, that much weight could be deadly, as Nafrik had unfortunately found. Marcurio had begun examining the rest of Fjalar's body. He was soon healing the man's torso for no apparent reason other than, I suspected, the possibility of internal injuries despite no stone currently lying on his chest. I then recalled that Marcurio had spent some time as an assistant in Windhelm's alchemy shop, which doubled as a hospital, more or less. He may have actually known exactly what he was doing.

"Can you feel your left leg?" I asked Fjalar.

The grunt the man gave as a response and a quick shake of his head told me he did not. I didn't know much about the human body when it came to anything other than bones and fascia, but I knew right away that this was not good. Nerve damage, blood blockage, or completely destroyed, the man's leg would never be the same again, if he would be able to keep it at all. I also knew that if we lifted the stones, the man would more than likely die, though I wasn't sure why this was the case. I was only getting my information from television and movies, after all.

Figuring it couldn't hurt, but rather could easily save Fjalar's life, I set out to heal the leg. Without surgical pins, a shattered leg would probably never, ever heal properly. I couldn't know, however, if he would die in a week from a dislodged blood clot.

"Move," I heard Stenvar say to Marcurio. Immediately and without any hesitation, Stenvar began to tie a leather strap tourniquet around Fjalar's left upper thigh, just above where the stones lay. I watched him work as I continued to heal the leg. Stenvar then held Fjalar's head up to help him swallow some red syrup from a vial, what I recognized as a healing potion.

I stopped healing the leg. "Stenvar…," I called to him quietly.

"Hmm?" He lowered Fjalar's head and stood. I stood as well, and motioned for Stenvar to join me out of earshot from Fjalar.

But a shrill scream demanded our attention. Selina's scream.

Amren bellowed her name.

Stenvar ran away from me and toward the commotion, toward the fortress entrance.

For an eternal moment I watched in horror as a mage advanced again toward Selina and, again, shot a magical spear of ice into the woman's body. Memories of Yrsarald suffering the same injury flashed in my mind. I sprinted to the woman. Stenvar, Jenassa and the other Whiterun guards were already advancing upon the mage. I healed Selina as best I could, beginning the process before yanking out the ice spears. There were two – one in her mid-torso and another in her left shoulder, narrowly missing her heart. She was still alive, but blood was already spilling from her mouth. As I healed her, I watched as my companions dispatched Selina's attacker and, soon, another two mages who had emerged from the fortress. They were taken down easily, one by Jenassa's arrow and the other with Amren's sword.

"Potion!" I shouted for someone, anyone. My magic was likely doing Selina a lot of good, but potions were like concentrated magic in a bottle, and I could have other injuries to heal soon. Thankfully, no more mages emerged from underground, and Stenvar was quick to my side. He poured a sip of the syrup into the woman's bloodied mouth. I stopped healing Selina and spread open the torn section of her leather armor. The ice spear that had gone into her shoulder had completely destroyed her chain mail. I was dumbfounded that ice -  _ice_ could do that. But, thankfully, the woman's wound was closed, though a scary reddish-pink circle remained, an artifact of the injury the woman would have for the rest of her life. I checked her torso and found a still-gaping wound, and recommenced healing it. "Anyone else injured?" I called.

"Just some frostbite," Marcurio called back. He was healing Stenvar.

Amren was soon at Selina's side. The woman was conscious, and in quite a bit of pain. I watched as her torso injury closed, slowly. The wound had apparently been deeper, or just plain worse. I wondered how well healing magic and potions actually healed internal organs and blood vessels as opposed to just closing wounds. I knew magic was  _supposed_ to heal things internally as well as externally, but I never thought to ask howwell. I figured, though, that 'closing wounds' included torn blood vessels and muscle and organ tissue, not just the skin. Healing magic wasn't simply metaphysical stiches.

The wound closed, and I let Amren comfort his sister. "Stenvar," I called to my friend as I walked up to him. I cast Magelight above us so that I could see better. When I did, I saw that the right side of Stenvar's face had caught a bit of frost magic, apparently. The skin where his steel helmet did not cover was a worrying, vivid pink. The flesh would heal well over time, but I knew, just like Yrsarald's chest where I had hit him with a frost spell, Stenvar would be scarred for life. "Fjalar's leg…."

"Mm, yeah. He probably won't live," he said quietly as he looked to the downed man. Marcurio was still at his side.

"The stone," I said. "If we lift it, he will probably die. But, I healed the leg. It was crushed, and will never be a good leg again, but he may live."

Stenvar was frowning. "He might, but he should know the possibilities. I've seen this before. The tie-around will only give 'im more time."

I nodded and looked away to the ground. I kept nodding. I bit my tongue with my canine tooth. My right leg started to subtly shake.

"Hey, are you alright?" Stenvar asked me, laying a hand on my upper arm.

My vision was fixed on a little red pebble. I kept nodding.

"Deb, talk to me."

"Hmm? Yeah, yeah. I'm alright, Stenvar. I just…." I sighed. Light was beginning to emerge in the east. I returned my gaze to my friend's serious grey eyes. "A lot has happened… and we are not yet inside the fortress."

Stenvar flashed me a small, sympathetic smile, gave my arm a supportive squeeze, and then lightly grazed my cheek with his fist in a slow-motion play-punch. "We'll be alright, sweetheart."

I forced a smile, and then walked up to Fjalar. Stenvar followed, and kneeled down before the broken man. His cries of pain had become sad little whimpers. Stenvar got the man's attention and then explained the possible outcomes. Option one: we would remove the stone and see what happened; death was a very big possibility, but with the tourniquet and the healing that had been done, he could live, though the leg would be largely unusable. Option two: we chopped off the leg above the tourniquet, cauterize the stump, and he'd almost surely live. Neither option had a fallback. Once the stone was off, what Stenvar called 'crush death' could come quickly, and healing potions and magic likely wouldn't stop it. Once the leg came off, the man would be without a leg. Basically, Stenvar was asking the man if he wanted to live with one leg, or die with two.

 

. . . . . .

There were no shovels around that we could find, so we elected to give our comrades an impromptu funeral-by-fire. It took quite a bit of effort to remove Nafrik and Fjalar's bodies from the rubble. There was a lot of shoving, panting and cursing, but we eventually were able to dislodge Nafrik's body from the pile he was crushed under. His steel armor had indented over his midsection and had squished his insides. He also had landed on a jagged, broken mason stone. Thankfully, he had likely died instantly.

The bodies were first searched for anything personal in case we needed to give something to their families, such as gold, an amulet, or anything that could have been an heirloom. We didn't need their money, but their families certainly would, and Jorleif would know where their families were. Nothing of significance, however – no notes, necklaces, rings or other such personal items – were found on their bodies, and soon they were both placed on piles of wood near the fallen turret rubble. We didn't have any strong liquor with us, so we were forced to use fire spells to set them aflame. Thankfully, the weather in the area had been quite dry, and it didn't take much energy from either me or Marcurio to ignite the pyres.

"Do it," Fjalar had said, weak but determined. "Lift it. If Sovngarde wants me, it will have me."

He died within minutes.

His wife's name was Inga. They had no children yet, but their dog's name was Bjeni. Before we lifted the stones off of his leg, I promised to say goodbye to his family for him.

It was my fault that Fjalar and Nafrik were there. My fault. If I hadn't asked Yrsarald to lend us two guards – who I then learned were  _all_ Stormcloak reserves – and if I hadn't been Yrsarald's partner, these two men would not have been with me, and would not have accidentally stepped on a lightning rune. At least, that's what Marcurio thought had happened. The two men were not on fire, nor freeze-burned and torn apart, but the force of the lightning rune had rather exploded the already shoddy masonry and sent man and stone flying. We made sure after this that the remaining members of our group knew how to identify a rune spell.

Before the pyres were lit and while the men burned, Stenvar sang a song for the fallen.

" _La da kloft_  
 _Zeik skul da lova_  
 _Sovenda_  
 _Ti morg_  
 _Guttela da med losk_  
 _Par leith da faras_

_Da megas siglar fjar_  
 _Ti hafen se authar_  
 _Med mjoth ath goll_  
 _Ast da kloft ath foten_

_Regen megan_  
 _Hvertid da fulgar_  
 _Leithrathar_  
 _Ath virntar_

_Engen se Sovngarde_  
 _Skul gypta losk ath sael_  
 _Da skul era hlira_  
 _Ti endatid_

_Nuk sovende_  
 _Zeik ki skul eigna_  
 _Enklaar her sitjar_  
 _Ath lova da sovenda_ "

Stenvar's song made me cry, even if I only understood a portion of the words. After the fires had been lit, Marcurio's hand had found mine, and when Stenvar stopped singing he gave it a squeeze.

Without the proper preparation with oils and perfumes, the lit pyres began to smell something like a barbeque of rancid bacon burgers, rust, and sulfur. I blamed the confusing sensory mix on their leather uniforms, chain mail, their iron-rich blood, and their hair.

"Let's go inside," I muttered, turning away from the pyres, pretending my eyes were watering from the fire.

"Do either of you need to rest?" Jenassa asked me and Marcurio.

"I'm fine," I heard Marcurio say. "I took a small sip of a potion, just in case."

I kept walking.

"Deborah?" I heard the Dark Elf call.

"I'm perfect. Let's go."

Jenassa positioned me in front, next to her, where I breathed  _laas_  yet again. I saw nothing, meaning that nothing alive or unalive was nearby. This was a relief. Jenassa then led the way with me beside her, and the well-recovered Selina and Marcurio behind us.

I kept breathing  _laas_  as we advanced. The magical whisper-word was effortless. As I had tested the night before, though, the full phrase of the dragon 'shout' lasted longer, and took only a bit more effort.

" _Laas yah nir_ ," I whispered as we descended further into the earth, slowly, silently. No red-fog figures appeared to me.

A splash of water halted the entire group.

" _Nchow!"_  Jenassa hissed the odd sound. Her left boot had dipped to the ankle in a pool of stagnant water.

"Everyone," Jenassa called delicately, "boots off. Water ahead."

We backtracked a short distance and sat on the steps leading down to the water to remove our boots. I peered over at Stenvar. "Is this normal?" I whispered. "People – outlaws and evil mages – living in water-filled, broken fortresses?"

"Yeah. Caves too. Always pack an extra pair of socks." Stenvar flashed me an amused smile.

I forced a smile in return, and then asked, "I liked your song for Fjalar and Nafrik. What did it mean? I only understood half. 'Sing asleep', 'warm fields of Sovngarde'…."

"Yeah, it's an older song from the farmfolk." Stenvar looped his boots, strapped to a leather thong, around his neck. "Basically a prayer that the dead go to Sovngarde."

I nodded. "Can you write it down for me, someday?"

Our conversation was interrupted by Jenassa. "Who needs thongs?"

Most of us did. Jenassa had thought ahead, or perhaps always carried with her dozens of leather thongs. We each took at least one, and strung our boots either around our necks or to our knapsacks. Stenvar had convinced me to take my large, two-strap suede knapsack which could hold a lot of gear and loot. But for now, all it held was some food, potions, clean linen for wiping my privates, Meridia's Light, and a dagger and a canteen hitched to either side. The dagger had been given to me a long time ago by Wuunferth, and I carried one small soul gem in my mage's robe pocket. If I stuck a creature with the dagger before it died, its soul would go into the soul gem. I didn't particularly like the concept of stealing souls, but I figured nothing cute and fluffy would be lurking in this dank fortress.

A faint, unclear sound perked my ears. I laid a hand on Jenassa's shoulder to get her attention. I pointed to my ear, and then pointed ahead. " _Laas_ ," I whispered. Not nearby, thankfully, I saw a blob of red, low to the ground. It faded in an instant. " _Laas yah nir_ ," I whispered, and the blob reappeared. It was scurrying around, perhaps along a wall. Again I got Jenassa's attention.

_One… small,_ I motioned to her silently. The elf woman nodded. I turned back in the direction of the fog, which then faded. The blob was not any closer. Jenassa pulled an arrow from her quiver, one of dozens, and slinked silently through the shallow pool around what looked like a globular boulder that the fortress was built around. I remained only three steps behind Jenassa.

I watched as the woman expertly took in her surroundings, not caring to dash into the fortress haphazardly. I then spotted what looked like a crude, rusted bear trap by a door. Jenassa spotted it as well. She picked up a pebble, tossed it at the small pressure plate of the mechanism, and effectively closed the trap. A faint  _clank!_  echoed only slightly down the stone corridor.

I breathed the dragon whisper again. The blob was close.

I hissed at Jenassa, hoping she'd stop in her tracks. She did.  _One… small._  I pointed at the doorway. The odd yet familiar sound I had heard was coming from just beyond the door. Jenassa nodded, positioned her bow at eye level, and drew the bowstring slightly. She alone advanced, but I stayed a few steps behind, as before. A loud splat followed what I guessed was Jenassa loosing an arrow. I trotted ahead to see a dead giant spider.  _What had Ralof called them?_  I asked myself. "Frost spider," I whispered.

" _Frostbite_  spider," Jenassa corrected me. "They spit poison."

"I know," I whispered in reply. "One blinded me at Helgen."

Jenassa gave me a look before turning again to the doorway.

I breathed the dragon word again, but nothing else was seen.

On we went, through another pool of foul, metallic-scented water. The large, tall square room was flooded up to mid-calf, likely destroying what apparently had been a storeroom, judging by all the half-rotted crates and barrels. The water had an odd color to it, a greenish-brown tinge, and I wondered if it was partially a cesspit. Thankfully, stone steps were not far away, and we would all be able to wash our feet and redress them once out of the rank water. No other red fogs appeared ahead, and I darted ahead to dry land. " _Laas yah nir,"_  I breathed again. I saw four tall red foggy figures far to the left, not close but not far, and I signaled everyone to be quiet.  _Four… tall_ , I signaled. I then cast the dead detection spell, and saw everything turn from red to blue.  _Undead,_  I added.

The upper level of the room was large enough for us all to take a seat either in chairs or on the mossy stone floor. Amren was quick to get his boots on. He began to loot the area of anything useful or valuable; Stenvar was not long to follow. I watched as Stenvar handed Marcurio several small, blue glass vials.

Jenassa waved me to her. She then pointed to a circular, copper-colored disc on the floor. I shrugged, hopefully conveying "I don't know what that is". With her hands she mimicked what I thought was supposed to be an explosion. She snapped her fingers, gaining everyone else's attention. She motioned for everyone, including me to step back as far as we could. She then grabbed a few books, hovered them over the copper disc, and then let them drop. Immediately she leapt back, apparently expecting an explosion. There was none, however, but what I did hear was a faint sound of air pressure being released and tiny objects clinking against stone. Once the sound stopped, Jenassa advanced slowly.

As we descended the short set of steps, I noted tiny darts scattered across the stone.  _Poison darts_ , I assumed.  _Poison darts shot out of the wall_. I had no idea that the place was going to be booby-trapped. I rolled my eyes. I hated that term.

Immediately ahead were tall, large cages. Two that I could see, at least.

"Hey!" I heard a woman's raspy voice try to shout from what apparently was some sort of dungeon, but her lungs seemed to lack power. "I know you're there; I can smell you."

I turned, horrified to Jenassa. She hung her bow across her chest, unsheathed her sword, and unhitched her shield from her back. "You said it yourself, Outlander. Four undead." Jenassa then walked ahead, wary but confident.

I trailed only a few paces behind Jenassa. Immediately upon entering the dungeon, I could smell a foulness that could not be defined. Not sewage, but close. A torture rack with gleaming, silvery shackles stood tall to my right; it was encrusted with blood. A table next to it exhibited an array of sharp, bloodied torture implements. A shiver ran down my spine.

"Ah!" A tall, blonde High Elf in rags watched us enter. She and four other undead people were behind bars. "A feast arrives at our door." The High Elf glided slowly toward her cage door and leaned against it, letting her arms dangle over the chest-height horizontal bar. "How kind." In the dim light of the dungeon, it took me a moment to notice the innumerable bruises, scrapes, cuts and welts on the elf's arms, lower legs, face and neck. The dark red bands across her wrists and ankles were undoubtedly from the torture rack. I assumed silver was harmful to the undead in this world as well as in the stories of mine.

"I have a silver sword, vampire," Jenassa countered. "I am not afraid to use it."

_Vampire. Vampire. I am standing in front of a vampire elf._ I looked to the other three cages. They all contained what looked like elves or humans, but all four of them had given off a blue glow – they were all vampires.

One of the other vampires, a Dark Elf woman, pressed herself against the bars as she clung to them. Her hair had been cut off at awkward lengths, and she looked to be missing half an ear. " _That_  one smells different," she declared before licking her lips, ogling me. I thought I saw her purple-red eyes flash yellow, but I couldn't be sure.

"She does indeed," replied the blonde High Elf.

"Unwanted," a male human vampire mumbled. He wore only a loincloth. His lithe body was oddly unsettling. "Unwanted!" he repeated as he crouched down to the far corner of his cell and hugged his knees.

"Another…," a fourth voice, another female sounded. This one was human. And naked. Her rags were scattered around her cell. "I've smelled one like her, before. Not long ago."

"Stop smelling me," I muttered, wanting to scream at them to shut up but figuring showing my aggravation would have been a poor decision on my part. In any case, all of the vampires before us looked battered, weak, and possibly insane; I wasn't in the habit of yelling at torture victims. I began to advance toward the human vampire female, the one who had said she recognized my scent, but Jenassa held me back.

She shook her head. "Too close and they can infect you."

Eyes bulging in an 'oh shit' moment, I took Jenassa's words to heart and stood where I was. "How do you recognize my smell?" I asked the naked vampire. "Who smelled like me?"

"A man," she grinned, showcasing several missing teeth. "I tasted him in Riften. He was delicious!  _Framaaantaaa…._ " She drew out the strange word in such a way as if the memory gave her a mental orgasm. The short vampire woman then proceeded to curl up into herself on her bedroll. I looked away when it appeared as though she had begun to touch herself in very private places.

I looked to Jenassa and Stenvar, as well as Ingjard who had come to my left side, ever protective. "What does 'framanta' mean?"

"Ehh, 'special'," Stenvar offered, "or 'foreign'."

_Foreign!?_  I didn't have time to dwell on what that meant. "What do we do?" I asked my companions.

"Oh, do let us out of these cages," the Dark Elf whined. "We only want to be free, nothing more." Her face contorted into an evil grin, and her eyes flashed yellow. That time, I knew what I saw. I also noticed something odd about the elf's face, but I couldn't quite define it. I thought I saw a faint red line running from her nose to her mouth. Her nose, though, definitely looked overly scrunched. Something about her appearance was terribly odd.

"There are mages in the next room," the one male vampire said in a quick, hushed voice. He was definitely not right in the head. "I can hear them." He jerked his head to the side. " _Tilranig_. Always  _tilranig_ …." He then covered his ears with his hands and began to weep.

I turned again to Jenassa. "What? What is he saying?"

Jenassa pressed her lips together for a moment before walking towards the door to the next room. She turned, and signaled me forward.  _You… look… door_ , she signed with her hands.

" _Laas yah nir_ ," I whispered. In the next room, I saw five standing foggy figures. I cast my death detection spell, and was surprised and very concerned that juxtaposed against the standing red fog pillars were five… seven… nine horizontal, white bodies. Nine dead creatures, possibly humans, were spread across the next room.

I turned and waved Marcurio forward.  _You… look… alive… door,_  I signed, hoping he understood that I wanted him to cast his detect life spell. Even though my heart was pounding so hard I could barely hear the murmurs from the next room of people talking quietly to themselves, I was following Jenassa's orders by switching off casting spells with Marcurio. It was like the riflemen in an army who stood in two rows and took turns loading and firing; it's how battles were won.

Marcurio obliged and cast his life detection spell.  _Five… alive… big_ , he signed.

I nodded in agreement as well as in elation. Nothing undead was unalive in the next room.

Jenassa turned to Stenvar and the others. There was no sneaking into this fight – we would meet the five targets head on.

"Let us out, sister," the Dark Elf vampire whined at Jenassa. "We will kill the mages in the next room. It would be our pleasure." When Jenassa failed to give the Dark Elf vampire the attention she desired, she rattled the iron bars that encompassed her. "Do it," she spoke louder, "please…." Still being ignored by her kin, the Dark Elf vampire began to shout. "You see it! You see it and you know!"

"Quiet!" Jenassa whisper-shouted at the raucous vampire.

"Let us out, and we will save you!" the Dark Elf vampire continued her shouting. "She wants you for herself, but it does not have to be!"

The male vampire began to wail; he was rocking back and forth.

Everyone who had them drew their weapons. Surely the mages in the next room were hearing the shouting, if not hearing exactly what was being said.

"Use chain lightning!" Marcurio blurted.

_Chain lightning_ , I mentally confirmed. Wuunferth had taught me the spell ages ago. The simple-but-effective destruction spell sent forth a lightning bolt in one direction which then leapt to nearby targets. The spell was dangerous, as it was indiscriminate in its targeting, but could easily stop several hearts at once, or at least stun several people at the same time. I was unconvinced, however, that mages would burst into the dungeon without their wards up, particularly if they had heard what the vampire had shouted. A rune, however… a powerful magical rune could not only break a ward spell, but kill anyone who stepped on it.

"No!" I yelled quickly, turning around. "Back away!" Without waiting for anyone to follow my orders – and there was no reason for them to, as Jenassa had been in the lead from the beginning – I immediately cast my strongest fire rune spell against the door to the next room. " _A var dagon as baune molag mino!_ " While lightning would only affect the living and thus leave unharmed the undead vampire whose cage was near the door, a lightning rune, as I recently learned, could also explode. As far as I knew, a fire rune couldn't bring down a fortress. "Out!" I turned back around again and commanded the group, failing my arms forward. "Out, OUT!"

"Hey!" I heard one of the female vampires yell, frantic. "Wait! WAIT!"

 

. . . . . .

Screams. Shouts. Cries of the utmost pain.

I strained to listen, unsure if the voices in the next room belonged to distraught vampires or mages.

Those around me with swords or axes readied themselves for an attack. I and Marcurio both cast Stoneflesh upon ourselves.

I felt weak, understandably. Rune spells took a lot of energy, particularly the one I had cast; they were usually meant to be cast as a trap, not an immediate offensive maneuver. I shifted my knapsack to the floor and drew from it one of the tiny, blue glass vials that contained magic-boosting potions. The purple liquid was the consistency of blackcurrant syrup but tasted like artificial sweetener and fungus. I wasn't exactly sure how this type of potion worked. No one I asked had a definitive answer on  _how_ the potion replenished my energy and allowed for more spells to be cast. I knew it had to do with what the syrup consisted of, like how cough syrup cleared the throat with particular drugs, but I never bothered to learn about the medicines of Skyrim. In the end, I accepted that the potion  _just worked_ , and left it at that.

While I was replacing the corked vial in my knapsack, Jenassa yanked my elbow and pulled me away from the rest of the group. " _What_  in Oblivion were you thinking!? Now the entire fortress knows it is being attacked!"

"I see only one alive person!" Marcurio hollered. "They're on the ground!"

I turned to the group and watched as Selina and Amren went ahead. Not long after, a woman cried out but was quickly silenced by what sounded like a sword impaling flesh.

"Marcurio!" I heard Selina call to my friend.

He ran forward into the dungeon room, no doubt needed to detect any incoming mages.

Jenassa again pulled on my elbow. "We agreed to do this as silently as possible."

"The vampires were shouting!" I yelled back at the elf. "The mages were coming anyway!"

Jenassa's lips pressed together in a flat line. Apparently that was also her disapproval face. "Just thank the gods that we were lucky, this time." The elf turned from me and walked to meet the others.

Ingjard had remained behind me the entire time. She was the only one. The redhead gave me a supportive smile.

"I am new at this," I said to her.

My bodyguard grinned. "While I understand why Jenassa is upset," she said as she picked up my knapsack, "I think you made the right decision." She helped set the knapsack on my shoulders. "Whatever magic you used killed all but one mage, apparently. Ten more may be running toward us, but…," she smiled, "well, if we live, lesson learned, hmm?" She urged me forward. "Go on, Dragonborn. I have your back."

Once in the dungeon room, I was immediately hit by an ungodly stench. One source was obvious – the vampire whose cage was nearest to the door to the next room had caught on fire, and was now a pile of ash.  _Note to self,_ I mused,  _vampires are weak to fire_. But the other smell, that was not coming from the metallic, charred flesh of a blood-filled vampire. As I slowly stepped forward, my scent memory kicked in.

Death. Rot. Bloat. Inside the next room were not just nine dead bodies, but at least several dissected bodies in varying stages of decay. I knew that smell. I knew it too well. I couldn't handle that smell.

The taste of sugary fungus re-entered my mouth and out spewed purple gunge onto the damp stone floor of the fortress. I gagged again, and then spat out the rest of the sweet stomach acids. " _Fucking… hell…,_ " I blurted in English. A canteen was shoved in front of my face. I didn't look to see who offered it before I grabbed it, stood, and took a sip to wash out my mouth. I spat, and then swigged and swished again, but swallowed that time. I needed the water, anyway. "I vomited the potion. Damn it."

"It's alright, Deb," Marcurio said. "Potions work almost instantly."

"Oh." I was apparently holding Stenvar's canteen, which was uncharacteristically full of water, not mead. "Thanks, Stenvar," I said as I handed it back to him. My friend simply nodded, and then turned back to recommence the looting of the room. The smell was simply too much. I couldn't be in there any longer. I ran back into the somewhat less revolting dungeon room, more content to hang out with three unalive vampires and one cooked one. I found a chair and immediately sank onto it.

"She returns!" I heard the naked, horny vampire woman hiss. "Oh, she who smells like nothing else. She who killed the mages. She who—"

"She killed Iveri!" the blonde High Elf cried. She had sunk to the floor of her cage and was loosely gripping the iron bars. Her body shuddered as she sobbed. "Monster."

"Deborah, get out of there," Jenassa ordered from the doorway.

I shook my head. "Can't. Smell."

"Oh, do let her stay, beautiful elf!" the naked vampire whined.

Jenassa stood, hands planted on her armored hips, switching glares between me and the caged vampires. Her eyes then lingered on the sobbing High Elf. "How is it that two Man- _meri_ , an Altmer, and a Dunmer are kept trapped in  _skraena_  cages? Where is your magic?"

"Caged," the male vampire muttered. He was still rocking back and forth, huddled into himself.

The naked human female vampire began to giggle as she cast a swirl of healing magic around herself. "Nothing leaves!"

"Jenassa," I quietly called to her. I pointed to the naked vampire's cage. As she cast her healing magic, the light seemed to hit an invisible boundary even between the iron bars, and caused a faint flash of white light to appear. "Magic iron?" I asked her.

"Mm, yes. Enchanted, most likely." She crossed her arms and watched as the naked vampire spun around in the golden swirls, only to become dizzy and fall down, still in a fit of giggles.

"Why did mages keep vampires in cages?" I asked Jenassa, or really anyone listening. The High Elf, though crying, seemed the only one of them who still had their wits about them. "Jenassa, you said standing close can infect me. Is that still true if their magic cannot cross the bars?"

"No," she answered, "I imagine not."

I stood, curiosity driving me. I approached the High Elf and kneeled down before her.

"Gods help me…," Jenassa muttered as she walked back into the other room.

I saw Ingjard there, watching, a horrified look spreading across her face. "Dragonborn, what are you doing?" she asked as she approached.

"Just watch, wait, alright?" I said to my bodyguard.

The woman sighed. "Alright…."

I turned back to the High Elf. Part of me couldn't believe that I was about to attempt a civil discussion with a vampire, particularly one who had not so long ago called us a feast. But we were here in this disgusting place for a reason, and these vampires were likely our only means to obtaining answers.

"What is your name?" I asked her, hopefully breaking the ice that had thickened once my rune killed the Dark Elf vampire, apparently the High Elf's friend.

The High Elf reined in her breath. Her sobs slowly quieted. I realized that no tears wet her cheeks, not even blood tears. Head still bowed and hands still gripping the cage bars, she whispered her answer. "Loralinde."

"I'm Deborah. Behind me is Ingjard."

"And I'm Selina," I heard the woman call softly from behind me. Her eyes were watering, and cheeks somewhat puffed as she exhaled very slowly. She released the rest of her breath and gave a small smile. "I needed out, too."

I returned her smile and then turned back to Loralinde. "I'm sorry that my magic killed the Dark Elf. What was her name? Iri…?"

"Iveri," Loralinde whispered. "She… was the only one of us besides me who still had her mind. Now Molag has her." The blonde finally peered up at me. "Please, send me to her?"

"What?" I asked.

"Kill me." Her eyelids fluttered over her odd, vampiric eyes and she turned away from me again. "I don't care how…."

I frowned. I was sad for the elf. Sad for a vampire. The notion became less odd, however, the more I realized that vampires still had feelings, sane or not. "Alright, Loralinde. I will kill you. Without pain. But, please, help us understand. What is being done in this fortress? Who were those mages? Why are you kept in cages?"

" _Tilranen_ ," she muttered.

I turned around to Ingjard and Selina. Both had found chairs and were perfectly happy to hang back, since obviously no other mages were attacking us from further into the fortress. "What does that word mean?" I asked either of them.

"Tests, trying things," Selina answered.

I bit my tongue, pondering the implication.  _Mages experimenting on vampires? Torturing them?_ "Loralinde," I asked the elf, "why are mages making tests on you and other vampires? Why do they hurt you? What do they want?"

She shook her head, setting her blonde hair to flow in waves. It was loose and unkempt, but not greasy. I wondered if vampires ever needed to bathe.

"Do they write in journals?" I asked.

The elf shook her head again. She wasn't sure, or didn't want to answer.

"What questions do they ask you?" Selina chimed in, standing from her chair. "What information do they want badly enough to harm you?"

"We can make slaaaves!" the naked vampire crooned from her cage.

"Slaves?" I asked, and then turned back to the High Elf. "The mages want you to make slaves?"

Loralinde sighed, but the sound was more like a sob. After a moment, she finally answered. "They want to learn how."

I sat back on my heels and turned to Selina who was then at my side. Neither of us nor Ingjard knew what to make of this new bit of information.

"What's the fuckin'  _tef_?" Stenvar asked as he walked into the dungeon room. "I really don't wanna be in that room any longer." I looked up at my friend, and he no doubt analyzed the curious scene before him – me, crouched down in front of a frail and hopeless High Elf vampire.

Ingjard was then on her feet, close behind me. I stood, too, and addressed Stenvar. "What is in the next room? Dead people?"

Stenvar shook his head. "Not just dead people, dead of all races, and some vampires, too. They were cuttin' up the vampires. Dunno why."

"No journals?"

"Not that we found, no."

I sighed. "Bring Marcurio here, please," I asked Stenvar.

After I explained to my mage friend what the vampires told us, I asked him what magic could make slaves.

"Well," he began, slowly, pondering his answer, "I once heard Elodie and Phinis talking about a spell that could raise the dead, if only briefly, and have them do whatever you command. They were talking about this rumor… about an old Altmer necromancer somewhere near Dawnstar who enslaved the dead – ghosts and draugr. But, that was the dead. I don't know if the same can be done to the living."

"Vampires have a different kind of spell," said Ingjard. "I have a cousin, Gunmar – he's a vampire hunter – he said that vampires can make any mortal a slave. They use them for food, or to fight for them."

"How?" I asked her.

My bodyguard shrugged. "Vampire magic. They have to bite the person first. That's all I know."

"Molag's gift," the quiet, broken male vampire muttered, barely loud enough to hear.

"What?" Selina asked, walking toward his cage.

"He knows about them," the male vampire murmured again, "what they're doing." He jerked his head up and glared at the doorway. Through gritted teeth he added, "We won't let her."

"What the hell is he  _nithich_  about?" Stenvar asked.

"I'm going to write this down." I fumbled out of the straps of my knapsack and retrieved my journal, inkpot and quill. I wrote, as fast as I could, everything that we had discussed, but in English, and in shorthand.

As I was writing, I heard Jenassa's chiding voice from the doorway. "At any moment mages could come in here and you are interrogating vampires?"

"We came 'ere for answers, Jen," Stenvar reminded his companion. He gestured toward the male vampire. "This one just mentioned Molag Bal."

The naked female threw her head back in a cackle, and then in a lilting, teasing voice, sang, "Mooolllaaag is aaangryyy!"

The male vampire began to weep again.

I stopped writing. That name rang a bell, and it took me a moment to figure out which bell.  _Not all of us 'gods', as you see us, care about the well-being of mortals_ , Meridia had said during our first encounter.  _Most see your kind as… entertainment. I suppose you would consider them 'demons'…. I learned too late of what Molag Bal had caused to happen with the bandits. There was nothing we could do._

_Rape. Rape, rape, rape._ I looked up from my journal to my companions. "What does Molag Bal have to do with vampires?"

"Our father has abandoned us!" the male vampire cried. "All alone!"

"Send me to her!" Loralinde yelled at me before whining through more sobs. "You promised…."

I knelt before the weeping elf vampire. "Who is Molag Bal to you? He has your friend?"

Loralinde nodded. "We return to The Father when we die…."

I scribbled down the Daedra Lord's name and then paused to think. "What does Molag Bal have to do with slaves?"

"That is his territory," Jenassa answered, sounding as stern as ever. "Molag Bal is the father of all vampires. In his realm, he gathers the souls of the damned, and those of his children. He enslaves souls." Her lips quivered only the slightest, but I caught the nervous twitch.

"And rape?" I added, my voice quiet. I instinctively looked for Stenvar; he was the only person there who knew of my past introduction to the will of Molag Bal. I saw the understanding in his eyes and then quickly looked away.

"Yes," Jenassa replied.

I closed my eyes and swallowed my anxiety, and then scribbled more notes into my journal. I had the feeling we were going to need to sit back and analyze what was going on in this fortress; and, even if we didn't learn anything from my notes, I would have recorded for myself more things about this world.

"Elf," Selina stepped forward, addressing Loralinde. " _Who_  is torturing you?  _Who_  wants to learn how to enslave people?"

"I don't know who she is," Loralinde answered. She shrank back from the cage bars and spoke in a hushed tone. "I only know she summoned us here, like those zombies. Summoned us, and caged us, tortured us for information. They forced us to drink dead men's blood – most lose their minds…. She holds power over the undead, a necromancer. She wants power over all."

I scribbled Loralinde's words as fast as I could.

"Power over all…," Selina repeated. "Slaves…. This person wants to enslave everyone? The living, too?"

"The dead people in the next room look like regular people," Stenvar said. "Well, includin' a Khajiit, an Argonian, and elves. No Altmer, though. A couple of vampires were opened up, but none of 'em are like those undead people we saw."

"Where are the zombies?" Jenassa asked.

Stenvar shrugged. "Further in, I suppose." He turned to Loralinde. "Do ya know where they're kept, the zombies?"

Loralinde just shook her head.

"We should move on," Jenassa suggested, or perhaps ordered.

Before I followed the crowd into the awful next room, I asked, "What is the best, quickest way to kill a vampire?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that was a long one. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Up next, further into the Keep.
> 
> In case you were wondering, Stenvar's singing voice is similar to Eddie Vedder (Pearl Jam) or Matthew Mayfield. Moderately deep and gravelly.  
> Yrsarald's singing voice is like Mike Reid (check out his cover of "To Make You Feel My Love"), very deep and smooth.  
> Deborah's singing voice is like that of a drunk bluebird. (Just kidding). She sings like a careless tone-deaf Lady Gaga, Vienna Teng, Christina Perri, or P!nk.  
> Marcurio, if you can get him to sing, sings like a mostly tone-capable Damien Rice.  
> Bird sings like an angelic Jeff Buckley or Ryan O'Neal (Sleeping At Last).  
> Brelyna thinks she can't sing well, but really she can, and sounds like Birdy or Skylar Grey.  
> Elodie doesn't sing anymore, but she has a voice like Ellie Goulding.
> 
> Stenvar's funeral song adapted from "Sleepsong" by Secret Garden
> 
> Adapted translation:
> 
> Lay down your head  
> I'll sing you  
> To sleep  
> To morrow  
> Bless you with love  
> For the path that you travel
> 
> May you sail far  
> To the seas of fortune  
> With mead and gold  
> At your head and your feet
> 
> May the gods  
> Always watch over you  
> Guide you on your way  
> And protect you
> 
> May Sovngarde's fields  
> Bring love and happiness  
> Be warm  
> To the end of days
> 
> Now fall off to sleep  
> I will not keep you  
> I'll just sit here  
> and sing you to sleep


	13. Rising Threat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question for my readers: Would you like it if I started to post a glossary at the end of chapters that contained Norren words? I am keeping a running list of words to post as an appendix, but I'm curious as to what my readers want. Originally, I never posted any translations because it's more immersive to not understand what Deb does not. And sometimes dialogue or Deb's inner monologue does the translation, and usually words make sense in context. But, some of you might be aggravated by the unknown words. Let me know in a comment if you do/do not want glossaries as endnotes.
> 
> I hope these last few chapters and this one are not confusing for anyone. If they are, don't be afraid to ask me what in all of Oblivion is going on.
> 
> Also, I may have tweaked in-game canon about the Life Detect spell….

It was easy with Loralinde and the male vampire – they wanted to die. The naked one, however, was less enthusiastic. I didn't really want to, but I cast the spell I knew that repelled the undead, rendering the vampire relatively harmless by crippling her with fear. Jenassa and Stenvar had to hold her by her arms as Amren brought his sword down onto the naked vampire's neck.

Jenassa was fine with me killing the insane vampires, but was not so pleased about me fulfilling my promise to Loralinde. "You should not have done that," Jenassa chided me. "She was of sound mind; we could have used the information."

"I told you – I promised her. She didn't know more, anyway. And the others were not right in the head. They are all better off, I think."

"Sure." Jenassa grumbled a few incoherent sounds. "Compassion for vampires…." I watched as her head moved from side to side. "Meridia would not approve."

I reached out, grasped Jenassa's upper arm and pulled her back to me. "Tortured people, Jenassa. Compassion for tortured people." I let her arm drop – her glaring red-brown eyes suggested that if I hadn't, I would have lost a hand. "And they were not attacking us."

Jenassa pressed her lips together. "You are young to this world, Outlander. You will learn, eventually – no vampire deserves compassion."

I ignored Jenassa for the time being. I blamed my mindset on being partially desensitized from all the movies and TV shows that romanticized and humanized vampires, but I wasn't about to kill one that didn't need killing.  _If Meridia doesn't like it,_ I thought _, she can leave me the fuck alone._

I needed to prepare myself for entering the next room. The foul smell had permeated everything inside it. I really wanted to run out of there as quickly as possible, but we needed to know what was waiting for us further in the fortress. I took in my surroundings: simple wooden tables, nine of them, all laden with a dead person or vampire; surgical tools, buckets of blood, and bowls of some sort of sweet-smelling tarry substance; several cages, hung from the ceiling, one containing the ripe carcass of some humanoid and one a freshly-killed Argonian.

My mage's robe sleeve was covering my mouth and nose, but I still smelled everything. "Anyone in next room?" I asked quietly, choking through my words.

"Many," Amren muttered.

I turned to Marcurio. He nodded, and whispered, "My magic is confusing. I see groups of alive people, undead people, and something else. I don't know what they are; there are some that are purple, but one is green."

My eyes widened. "Green?"

Marcurio nodded. "Look for yourself."

When I breathed the dragon word for 'life', I indeed saw three groups of very bright red. I cast my dead-undead detection spell first, and sure enough saw two groups of blue-glowing undead people. The life detection spell showed the usual purple glow for the alive people, but just as Marcurio had said, within the group of living beings was one bright green person. Brilliant, Kelly green.

"What glows green?" I asked my mage friend.

"No idea," Marcurio answered.

I kept casting my life detection spell as I turned to the group behind me. Nine people, including myself, were glowing purple-blue.  _No_ , I corrected myself,  _eight._  "Wait," I said aloud. I stopped casting the life detection spell and let it fade. My eyes were fixed on the one figure in our group that was not glowing purple. The one figure that had glowed green. I couldn't tell who it was until the fog faded.

When it did, I gasped rather audibly. "Selina?"

The Redguard woman merely blinked at me. "What?"

"Why are….?" I stopped my mouth from forming the words. Selina had been glowing bright green, standing out like a pine among oaks. Whatever the green glow meant, I almost outed her. Now was not the time, at least not until I figured out for myself what a green glow meant. We needed to see what was in the other room. "Ehh, nevermind. Nothing." I turned to Marcurio. "Do you think the groups are in cages, and that is why they are so close together?"

"Yes," he replied, giving a quick nod, "that's exactly what I thought."

"Then let's go," I whisper-ordered.

"You two at the front," Jenassa commanded. "Put up your wards, just in case you're wrong about the cages."

As we advanced, I breathed ' _laas_ ' one last time, just to make sure no one else was coming into or was near the next room. Marcurio and I descended slowly, wards up as instructed, and I watched for any red, foggy movement. No one else entered the next room, however, and eventually our group of nine stood before three overcrowded cages.

In one cage stood about a dozen undead people of all races, human or otherwise, in various stages of decay. Several were soldiers from both sides of the war. They simply stood there like sleeping horses, heads down and arms hung to their sides. In the center of three cages stood vampires, about seven of them, all with wild, yellow eyes and bared fangs. They all moved around their cage in super-quick, silent dashes. They stopped when they saw us, though. One of them hissed. In the farthest cage were fewer individuals. All four of them looked human, all Nord I guessed from their looks. This last group was the one that contained the green-glowing person.

I glanced at Selina. She was standing in front of her two male companions, Soring and Jorik. Her eyes were fixed on the four caged Nords. I noticed that her hand holding her bow was trembling.

"Selina," I called to her, softly.

Her head jerked to me, seemingly startled out of a daze. "What?"

"Are you… alright?"

The woman nodded as she hung her bow across her back, over her chest.

"What's the plan, Jen?" Stenvar asked.

A caged Dark Elf vampire jumped onto the iron bars, gripping them tight with one hand and reaching out with the other. She reminded me of a lonely cat in a kennel, desperately in need of companionship. Or food. I then noticed that all of the vampires in the one cage had grossly disfigured faces, just as the killed Dark Elf vampire had, but far worse. They kind of looked like bats.

Jenassa studied the individuals in the cages, taking her time in answering Stenvar.

"These vampires look different," I noted.

"They're starved," a deep voice came from the farthest cage.

"Starved?" I asked, edging closer to the caged Nords but leaving an arm's length between me and the iron.

The voice belonged to a tall, dark-haired man with a very dirty face and dried, cracked brown warpaint that had been splashed around his eyes. His ear-length hair was oily and matted, and his companions were fairing no better. The lone woman was somewhat thin but muscular, and the other two men were both shorter than the others but built like rugby players. The short men and the woman were all sitting on gathered straw on the stone floor. The stench of feces was strong from their cage.

"They haven't had blood in weeks," the man continued, "they're basically animals in the shape of men and elves, now."

"Aren't they always?" the blonde woman behind him muttered.

The standing Nord looked past me in the direction of Selina. His gaze lasted a little too long, and it was clear to me that either they knew each other, or they knew what each other were. As the green glow had outshone the purple ones, I figured the Nord I was speaking with, standing in front of the others, was the odd man out. I was itching to ask what he was, why he had glowed green instead of purple or blue, but I figured that could wait until some ice was broken. We needed information, first and foremost.

"What is going on in this fortress?" I asked him. "The vampires in the other room said that someone wanted to enslave people, like necromancers enslave the dead and undead. Why are there people cut open in the next room?"

"Cut open?" The man grimaced, and then shook his head. "No idea. We never saw what was in the other rooms. We were taken here  _bindt_ , couldn't see anything, but we could sure smell it. Death and blood, everywhere." The man huffed a laugh. "Guess now we know why." He leaned forward, grasping at the bars, smirking. "I suppose you're here to rescue us?"

Jenassa stormed forward and moved in front of me, taking back her command, I supposed. "We are here to find out why the undead were being called to this place. We did not know how many lives were contained here, or what was being done. What can you tell us about this fortress?" She sniffed the air. "Is there a dog with you?"

The man smiled. "Vilkas," was all he said.

"What?" Jenassa furrowed her brow.

"My  _name_  is Vilkas. Behind me is Rik, Horg, and Ullna." The man, Vilkas, again glanced past Jenassa and me to Selina. He gave her a terse nod. "So," he turned back to Jenassa, "how about that rescue, hmm?"

"Tell us what is going on here," Jenassa ordered, "and then we will decide whether or not you need rescuing."

"Jenassa," Selina spoke up. She approached the cage. "I can  _nestar_  for him and the others. They mean us no harm."

"You know these people?"

"Yes." Selina stepped up to the cage, grasped the bars, and pulled herself close enough to Vilkas for, frankly, anything to happen. It was immediately obvious that she trusted him with her life. "How did you get here?" she whispered to him.

"Ambushed by vampires," Vilkas answered. "They bit us. Like I said, starved, nearly  _villa_. Their bite did me in, made me…. Well, I lost control. I was completely  _ostathatur_  and whoever was with the vampires was able control them, pull them away from us before we died. They then put us in irons. They  _bindt_  us, made us walk a while, and now we're here. The irons were enchanted; I couldn't…." He shook his head, slowly, shoulders low in shame. "It was my fault, taking out these  _volpen_  alone. I couldn't defend them."

"If you were ambushed then it wasn't your fault." Selina let go of the bars and turned. "Those  _spaken_ , are they for these cages?"

"Yes. Ours is the one on my right.  _Please_ don't open the other cages…."

Without even a glance to Jenassa to get her permission, Selina pushed the  _spak_ , lever, which lined up with Vilkas's cage. A metallic  _clank_  sounded and Vilkas opened his cage's door. The other three with him pushed themselves up from the floor, brushed off the loose bits of straw from their ragged clothing, and joined him.

"Thanks," Vilkas said, directing a faint smile to Selina, who had, oddly, stopped paying him any attention. "So, yes, this fortress. Necromancers and mages all over the damn place as far as we can tell. Undead, too. Those ones in that cage there," he pointed at the huddled mass of docile undead, "stink as bad as regular, rotting dead people. They're slower to rot, though." He turned to me. "Got any water for us?"

"Oh, yes," I answered, untying my canteen from my knapsack.

The four uncaged people drank thirstily before Vilkas continued divulging what he knew. "Those vampires down the hall, they can sure scream." He laughed. "But, as far as what's goin' on here…. All we know is that the mages are experimenting on everything, everyone. With us, we were usually forced to drink some kind of potion, and then they cast magic at us. All kinds." He pointed to the singed edge of what was once a sleeve. The skin of his upper arm was pink, likely from a burn. A magical burn. "They starved us sometimes, like the vampires but, naturally, we became very weak. Starved vampires apparently gain strength."

 _Good segue_ , I thought.  _Thanks_. "Why are the mages interested in you?" I asked, giving him a look that I hoped conveyed that I knew something was different about his biology.

Vilkas turned to me with a blank expression. "I'm a Companion." I didn't expect that answer. I also didn't expect him to practically snarl at me after answering.

. . . . . .

The fortress was legitimately enormous. Everything was underground and therefore dank and musty, occasionally slippery or flooded. I wondered if my mold allergy would rear its ugly head soon, but so far no sneezing plagued me. Not far from the three cages where we found Vilkas and his three companions was what appeared to be a practice hall. Jenassa and I, ahead of the group, watched as two mages cast various forms of magic at two targets. We couldn't see what they were, but we could hear their screams. Screaming targets.

Jenassa wasted no more time and motioned Selina forward. The two sniper-archers quickly and silently took out the two mages, and after I confirmed that no one else was coming, we advanced into the room. The cries of the live targets turned into whimpers, and I finally saw what they were. Women elves, or perhaps vampires – I couldn't tell from twenty-some feet away – whose rags had been singed off of their bodies. Their beige-pink, red and black, burned bodies. They were High Elves. I cast my dead-undead detection spell. Sure enough, both of the whimpering creatures were undead. I kept my distance, unsure if their cages were enchanted.

"Does healing magic work on vampires?" I asked anyone in the room.

"No, at least we're told it doesn't," Marcurio answered. "You have to be a necromancer, I think."

"We need to kill them, then," I suggested, however unhappy with the conclusion. "Can we get the cages down?"

Ullna, the woman who had been caged with Vilkas, walked over to a panel on the wall where two levers were pointed up. She pulled them down, and the loud clinking of metal chains running over pulleys indicated that the cages were lowering.

"Kill her," one of the elf vampires breathed. "It needs to stop."

. . . . . .

Further inside the fortress, we met our first necromancers, or at least the only mages that so far proved to wield such magic. In a long hall lined with iron coffins, there were five mages and eight walking skeletons. Jenassa and Selina were able to dispose of two of the mages silently, but it didn't take long for the others to put up their wards and ready themselves for an attack. I found it oddly comforting to know that arrows had a difficult time penetrating a ward spell. Swords, on the other hand, ripped right through the magic and often broke the spell. Stenvar, Amren, Soring and Jorik easily took out the remaining mages while Marcurio and I used lightning magic on the walking skeletons. Thankfully, the magic broke any necromantic spell and the bones instantly disarticulated and flew about the room, just as they had when I encountered my first walking skeleton in Saarthal.

The next area was admittedly the more difficult, frustrating and somewhat terrifying thus far. I was confused by what my whispered dragon word told me.  _Two… tall… two… short_ , I had motioned to Jenassa and the others. I cast my dead-undead detection smell and saw nothing, so I silently called for Marcurio to use life detection magic. This method of switching off certainly paid off – neither of us felt particularly tired. After Marcurio cast the magic, he signed to us,  _two… tall… alive._ That's all. I was confused, because my dragon word had indicated otherwise.

" _Laas_ ," I breathed. Sure enough, two tall as well as two short red clouds hovered around the next room.

I turned to Jenassa.  _I see… two… small_. I didn't know how else to describe them. They weren't alive, nor were they dead.

Thankfully, my confused look translated to Jenassa that I wasn't sure what was in the next room. She put her lips to my ear and whispered, "Daedra." She took a step away from me and nodded as if to say, 'Yes, you heard me right.'

Daedra. Daedra. Not Daedra Lord – I knew the difference, now. The daedra were summoned or conjured, most likely. I took a moment to recall the spell I had learned that banished daedra back to Oblivion. It was a fairly weak but easy spell, and I had only ever used it on daedra summoned by the conjuration instructor Phinis Gestor. I stood back from Jenassa and summoned the spell into my right hand.  _Yes, good_ , I said to myself,  _that looks right._ My right hand cupped rather ominous flames of deep violet with a black void in the center. I was told that this hole was in fact the 'tunnel' that a banished daedra would travel through en route to Oblivion – indeed, a metaphysical Void where there was nothing and, yet, everything. The purple flames, which were not really flames at all, created a cooling sensation in my palm as opposed to heat. I brought my right hand to my left and let the magical energy cycle through my body. I was ready to cast this spell at whatever was behind the door.

As we readied ourselves, I heard faint mutterings vibrating from the next room. The words were too muffled to be understood, but the rhythmic utterances, which almost had a tonal quality to them, were apparently part of a chant.  _I really, really hate this necromancer crap_ , I thought to myself.

I was startled when I heard a deep voice behind me mumble, "I hate this magic crap." I turned to see the dirty rescued super-human person named Vilkas sporting a deep scowl and furrowed brow. He noticed my quizzical look and replied with his own, most likely a 'what?' face. The three others behind him appeared no happier about being led through a fortress full of mages.

Jenassa and Selina, poised and ready with loaded arrows, stood at the door while Stenvar stood ready to push it open. I stood between and somewhat behind the two archers, magic ready. I breathed the dragon whisper-shout again. The short daedra were in two different locations. I decided to separate my magic into either hand, and hopefully hit both at the same time. Then, with either hand, I pointed in the direction of Jenassa's and Selina's targets. Jenassa gave Stenvar a nod, and he pushed open the door.

 _Twang, twang, squik, squik! Sizzle, sizzle, floosh, floosh!_ I watched as what were apparently conjured wolf spirits dissolved into the purple flames of Oblivion. The two mages had died instantly from an arrow to the neck and eye, respectively. I wasn't prepared for the three other mages that came storming into what appeared to be a ritual room, but our archers and Marcurio were ready. Marcurio, leaving nothing to chance, cast from both of his hands a streak of chain lightning. The magic bounced from the center of the three mages and onto the others, who had already been (probably) dead, judging by the arrows sticking out of their chests.

A burst of fire coming from the next room demanded our attention. We stopped in our tracks, luckily still somewhat removed from the source of the flames. Marcurio put up his ward and cast chain lightning in the general direction of flame source. I followed his lead, but instead of casting the same spell, held up my ward while summoning an ice rune. However weak this particular rune was, coming from me, I knew it was supposed to be useful against anything that cast fire.

" _A var dagon as mafre niis mitta mino!"_  The frosted runes splayed across the doorway and, thankfully, whatever it was that was shooting fire at us crossed over it. The thing looked like it had been floating, and also on fire. I had no idea what I was looking at, but I was pleased when it was apparently deactivated by the exploding frost rune. The flames on its body ceased to flicker and instead what remained was a humanoid-shaped ember. I began to walk towards it, curious as to what it was, but Marcurio thrust his arm across my chest, stopping me in my tracks.

"Flame  _atronach,"_  he said.

"What?" An explosion ahead of me was my answer, I supposed. I was getting real tired of explosions. I turned back to what once was a humanoid ember to see what simply looked like a charred body. I looked over to Marcurio as if to ask, 'Can I go now?' He dropped his arm from my chest, and forward I went. The thing on the floor was definitely in the shape of a female humanoid. Its body was slender and boasted two obvious breasts, but it had no skin, not really. It was as if the creature was a fire demon, complete with horns and odd, goat-like feet. " _What the hell?_ " I muttered in English.

"Flame  _atronach,"_  Marcurio repeated. "They explode when they die."

"'Atronach'," I repeated. "I still don't know what that is, even though I am looking at one."

I crouched down in front of it, hand hovering over the dead woman-shaped ember. It gave off heat, so I decided not to touch it. Its hide that was  _not_  hide appeared to be something akin to lava, but it held its shape. It flowed, slowly, as if encased by something transparent. The body of the figure was covered in deliberate places in what could only be compared to cooled, smoothed and shaped lava. The being had the lower face of a female – coal-black nose, rounded cheeks, lips, chin, all highlighted by a soft red-orange glow. Its crown was topped by two elaborate, winding and coiled horns. Draping down from its head was a network of this same cooled lava that formed somewhat of a cowl, or pauldrons. The breasts were coal-black. What would be ribs were formed by the same lattice pattern as the pauldrons, and the figure also boasted gauntlets, leggings, and something akin to a chastity belt. Its feet were not quite cloven, but the toes did have two dark talons that topped off overly slender, pointed legs. Most disturbing, the creature had no eyes, but rather retained a flow of lava-skin where eyes would have been. The lava-skin flowed upward, even in death, forming fire-hair.

"So this is from Oblivion?" I asked.

"Yes," Marcurio replied. "I suppose you never saw Brelyna summon one?"

"What?" I turned to my friend. "No, no, I would have remembered…. She can create this?"

"Well, not create. Summon. It's one of the few Conjuration spells she knows. I think this is a summoning room. Look," he pointed at an eight-point double diamond raised platform in the center of the room. "The soul gems around it in the stands, candles…. They were trying to summon something. Or, perhaps, send someone to Oblivion."

" _Send_  someone there!?"

"Come along, you two," Jenassa nearly hissed the command.

We encountered no more mages for a while, and I took the opportunity to quietly ask Marcurio questions whenever we knew an area was clear.

"So, what exactly  _is_ a 'atronach'? And why did it bother to cover its breasts? Why did it  _have_ breasts? Do they all have breasts?"

"I don't  _know_ , Deb. I mean, yes, flame _atronachen_  all have breasts, but I don't know why. Frost and storm  _atronachen_  don't have anything…. Maybe fire is a  _kunina_ element."

"'Kunina'?"

"Like a woman."

"Oh…."

We passed by unoccupied rooms full of shelves and barrels, apparently enchanting and alchemy supplies, as well as a small forge. I looked around for journals and occasionally whispered ' _laas_ ', but there was no one waiting for us, yet. We briefly rummaged through bedrooms that were also unoccupied. We spent much more time in a dark library, though Magelight cast by me and Marcurio helped a lot. I suggested that we take extra care to search for anything that could have been used to take notes or record the results of experiments.

"So, 'atronachen' are summoned from Oblivion. There are three kinds—"

"Four," Marcurio corrected me. "Another is made from flesh, but for all I know it's just a rumor. I've never seen one."

" _Ew_ ," I muttered. "Alright, four kinds of 'atronach'. From Oblivion. Fire is… feminine? Ice—er, frost, and storm have nothing like that…. I suppose they match the other elements, yes? Fire; frost, water; storm or lightning, air; flesh, earth. Hmm…."

"Yes, I suppose they might all be related to the elements."

"I'm still confused at what a 'atronach' is. It's not a demon, but, an element from Oblivion, I suppose. Energy from Oblivion. Elemental energy from Oblivion…."

"Your words are wandering."

I looked across a table full of books to Marcurio. He kept his eyes fixed on the contents of a book. "See, Marc – that is why I like you. You give me rough love."

He coughed. "What!? Ehh, no... What?" He was blushing.

"You know, friends who say the truth to other friends, even if it can be rough."

"I think you mean  _aktranta_ ; similar word, but…," he cleared his throat and smiled, "different meaning."

I looked up at my friend. "What did I say?" I felt my eyes go wide with realization and embarrassment. "I… oh…."

Marcurio sniggered and continued to rummage through the books.

"There's nothin' here," I heard Stenvar say.

A moment later, Jenassa poked my side and nodded forward – her command for 'do that thing you do'.

" _Laas_ ," I breathed. Nothing.

Jenassa pushed open a final door that led to wide, spiraling stone steps, leading up. Lining the steps were sporadically spaced globes of Magelight. We ascended the steps as silently as possible, our archers in the lead with me, Marcurio, Stenvar, Amren, and Ingjard not far behind, and Soring and Jorik at the rear.

" _Laas yah nir."_  Still nothing.

At the top of the stone steps there were many shelves filled with what looked like useful items. I watched Stenvar and Amren fill linen sacks with loot. More bags had been filled, but they had been left in the halls of the rest of the fortress, a sort of trail leading us back to the entrance as well as keeping our loads light.

" _Laas_ ," I breathed yet again. I turned to Jenassa and shook my head. Nothing.

Jenassa pushed open the door.

The room beyond was round, expansive, and entirely devoid of both life and unlife. Just in case, I simultaneously cast both of my detection spells. "Yep, truly nothing."

I turned to Marcurio who simply shrugged.

"Look at the candles, though," Selina said as she walked around the center platform. Indeed, dozens of candles around the room were still lit, and by the looks of them they had been lit for possibly hours.

The central platform was almost an exact replica of the smaller 'summoning' area we had previously found, but this one had far more candles placed around it, and in the center was a pedestal bearing a book. The entire room, in fact, was lined with stands of candles, and two alcoves also had summoning areas and stands with books.

"Eight points," I muttered.

"Hmm?" Jenassa asked.

"Those summoning areas all have eight points. Two sets of four." I turned to Jenassa. "What does 'eight' mean to you?"

"The Eight Gods, I suppose. But summoning areas are always like this; this one is nothing special, except for the stand." Jenassa walked up to the central platform.

"They have eyes, the book stands," I noted.

"Yes, they always do." Jenassa studied the book on the stand, not touching it but rather eyeing it very closely. "An ancient Nord tradition, or perhaps something to do with conjuring."

"Definitely Ancient Nord," Stenvar said. "I've seen 'em in ruins, but… well, maybe ancient Nords were conjurers."

"I doubt it," I heard Vilkas mutter under his breath.

I spun around to face the dirty ex-prisoner. "What do you not like about magic? Marcurio and I are mages. We are helping Jenassa and Stenvar. We healed Selina," I pointed her out absentmindedly, though I knew that her and Vilkas had some sort of past and the woman did not need pointing out. "If we had not, she would be dead. Yes, killed by other mages, but that does not make me and Marcurio and our friends bad!"

"You're a Nord," he said to me. "You should understand."

I didn't. Not at all. But instead of bothering to argue with yet another anti-magic Nord, I just rolled my eyes and voiced my annoyance with a loud, grumbling sigh. I walked over to the central summoning area to find Jenassa still studying the pedestal and book. "Do you think it is a trap?" I asked her.

"No, but I would rather not die if I am wrong."

"I feel something," Marcurio called from one of the alcoves. His hands were hovering over the book. "I think it's the book, though. I don't think there is any kind of magical trap."

"Well, why do we not find out? Back away from there," I motioned to Marcurio and Stenvar. "I will knock it off the stand, and then we will know."

"With what, magic?" I heard Vilkas ask. I half-turned to glare at him. "You'll ruin the book."

I turned fully and stomped back over to Vilkas. I reminded myself that he was not only strong-looking, but also super-human, and punching him in his smug face was likely a bad idea. Ingjard was, as always, right behind me, no doubt ready to defend my life, or perhaps stop me from doing something stupid. Either way, I was happy that she was there. "Thank you, Vilkas," I said, forcing a lofty, unoffended tone, "for reminding me that fire, lightning and frost can damage paper and leather. I  _completely_  forgot!" I slowly brought my palm to my forehead in a feigned 'd'oh' moment. "I am, of course, a simple woman-mage who needs a big strong Nord warrior to remind me of these things sometimes." I couldn't remember if I had attempted harsh, defensive sarcasm before in Norren. It sounded better in my head. I gave Vilkas a stare of doom and turned back to the empty alcove. I ignored the sniggers and chortles around me, hopefully directed at Vilkas and not at my attempt at a sarcastic retort.

Without wasting any more time I inhaled sharply and shouted as loudly as I could the dragon word for 'force', directed at the book on the stand in the empty alcove. I was far from the stand, and the force of my voice was just strong enough to send the book to the floor. And then nothing happened.

"Alright, good," I announced. "No trap."

I turned to Vilkas, grinning while peering into his widened silver eyes. He was pressing his hands to his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major, major thanks to Kira Mackey for her help and guidance with his chapter. Dear lord, was this difficult to map out and write. It took me weeks of deliberating on underplot points that you won't even read about until Book 3 or 4! (They're just hinted at in this and the last chapter). It honestly was the hardest thing I ever worked on thus far, which isn't fair because this is based on a quest in-game! haha. phew. BEGON, EVIL CHAPTER THIRTEEN! TO THE ARCHIVES WITH YOU!
> 
> Up next, examining the clues, and returning to Whiterun.


	14. The Past is Never Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to say that, no, Deb won't be joining the Companions anytime soon. I'm pretty sure she just made a frenemy for life in Vilkas. No telling if she'll ever see him again. At least on purpose.
> 
> Thank you all for continuing to read. I cherish all of your comments!

 

On the way out of the fortress, everyone chipped in with the carrying of sacks of plunder – well, everyone except for Vilkas and his crew. Their weapons and armor had been stowed in a storeroom not far from their dungeon, and besides their belongings and some food and water, they wanted nothing but to be free. The moment they were dressed and armed, they were gone. I noted that, aside from when Selina mentioned that Vilkas and his crew were trustworthy, she failed to even look at the man let alone speak to him. I was fighting a desperate urge to ask Selina what was going on, what she and Vilkas were to one another and why they glowed green when I cast my life detection spell, but I knew I needed to ask her in private so as to not divulge publicly whatever secrets she had.

When we passed by the caged groups of crazed, feral-like vampires and docile zombies, we decided to kill them as quickly as possible. In front of each cage I cast my strongest fire rune, and once everyone was out of that room I stood as far away as I could, cast Stoneflesh upon myself, and cast weak balls of lightning at each rune at the same time. Lightning magic was the best igniter of rune spells of any type. When the lightning had been cast, I fell back and put up my ward. I watched, only somewhat horrified, as fire engulfed the undead prisoners. When the flames died, only several in each cage were still unalive, and I repeated the process.

I stepped toward the cages, wanting to make sure they were dead. Despite what Jenassa had said to me, that vampires deserved no compassion, I wasn't about to leave a group of them and zombies unalive in a fortress that we intended to seal as best as possible. Satisfied by the white glows in front of me, the result of my dead-detect spell, I crashed onto a chair in the dungeon room and chugged water from my canteen. The process had quickly drained me of energy, and my work wasn't even done yet. I also had a sack of loot I was given to carry back. I took a sip of magic-regenerating potion and gave myself a few moments to recover.

When everyone was outside of the fortress, the Whiterun guards went to retrieve the horses where we had left them. While they were gone, I set out to seal the entrances to the fortress. There were only two, and since the place was ancient and falling apart anyway, I figured ordinary lightning runes would do the trick. When the lightning was cast and ready on one of the doors, everyone including me stepped far from it. Marcurio readied himself to cast his own lightning magic at the rune. He waited from a signal from Jenassa to do so.

Just like the rune that toppled the turret and killed our Stormcloak companions, my rune exploded the entrance, sending dozens of mason stones tumbling down, effectively rendering the entrance useless (that is, of course, until someone really, really wanted to get into the fortress and moved the tumbled mason stones). The underground entrance was more difficult. I cast the rune against the doorway, but Marcurio would have to use chain lightning and hope it would bounce its way to the rune. It took four tries, but eventually it worked. The explosion only caused the doorway to expand, however, and we needed to improvise. I was getting tired and a bit dizzy, but I cast one strong rune along the wall of the spiral steps that led down to the doorway. Marcurio hit that rune on the first try with regular, stronger lightning magic. The wall toppled onto the steps, effectively sealing off the entrance except for a few gaps much too small for a person to slip through.

Thankfully, our camp had gone undisturbed, and all five horses were brought to the fortress. The two horses that had been issued to the Stormcloak reserves were to be taken back to Windhelm, later, but for now, all were needed to haul the result of Stenvar and Amren's plunder.

The sun was still relatively high and none of us were particularly in need of half a day's rest, so we decided to go back to our camp, gather the remnants of our belongings, and head back to Whiterun. But before we left the fortress grounds, Marcurio and I attempted to locate whoever must have fled the large ritual room. We each tried to use our clear-seeing spell, the one that cast a blue fog as it led the way to the caster's goal, but failed miserably. The books were not magically attached to anyone enough to draw us toward them, and we had nothing else of the necromancer's to use. Or, as Marcurio thought, the necromancer blocked anyone from finding her.

Along the way, Marcurio, Jenassa, Stenvar and I studied the books that been found in large ritual room of the fortress. Marcurio and I were reading what we deemed to have been the most important one, the book that was on the central platform's pedestal. When we saw the title of the book and read the very first word of the contents, we were stunned.

"Saarthal…," Marcurio whispered. "This has to be more than a coincidence."

"Candles were lit in that room," I mused, "someone was there. I bet the woman ran away when she heard fighting." I turned to Jenassa and Stenvar. "What are those two books about?"

"This one is about the Ayleids," Jenassa answered.

"What?"

"Ayleids," she repeated. "Ancient elves."

"Oh."

"It is not a terribly interesting book. It mentions how they kept human slaves, and then the rebellion that ended their culture."

"This one talks about some people called Psijics," Stenvar said.

"Psijics!?" Marcurio and I said at once.

Stenvar jerked his head up at us. "Yeah, you've heard of 'em?"

I grabbed the book from him. I didn't understand the title, nor many words in the first paragraph. "Damn it," I grumbled, and handed it back to Stenvar. "I don't understand the words." Stenvar took the book back, but had his eyes on me, not the page content. My own eyes narrowed at his, confused by his gaze. "What?"

"You're gettin'  _gripa_ ," he muttered before smirking.

"What?" Stenvar held out a hand and proceeded to grab at my robe, my canteen, my hair. I swatted him away. "Alright, I understand.  _Geez._ "

"'Dzeeeeez'?" The old sellsword tried to mimic my English expression.

"Nevermind."

"No, tell me. What is 'duhjzjzjzeeez'?"

I laughed at his second attempt. "You can't say it correctly. Your language does not have the right sound for the first letter." I was reminded of Yrsarald's attempt to say my father's name, Jake, and smiled.

"But what does it mean?"

I sighed. "It is something people in my world say in the stead of someone's name. It is a stupid thing people in my world do, and I wish I did not do it. It is a word without meaning for me."

"Someone's name? Whose name?"

"Someone who was important to a lot of people for reasons I will never understand. Like Talos, perhaps, but… not. I believe what I read about Talos. It is not impossible, what he did, and why he is now a god. But my world does not have gods, so, it is probably not possible that this person in my world was similar." I laughed. "And he was not a warrior, not at all." I waved myself off, then. "Nevermind. It is a stupid thing I have said my entire life. It means nothing to me."

Apparently Stenvar was satisfied with my answer. He had moved on. "Well, this book that you were so very impatient for writes about an island that disappeared."

"Disappeared!?" I asked.

"Mmhmm. An island that is in the land of the Altmer. The Dominion."

"May I see?" Marcurio asked Stenvar.

My sellsword friend smirked at me as he handed my mage friend the book. 'See how a polite person asks for things?' his expression said. I rolled my eyes and looked away, and heard Stenvar quietly chuckle.

"They were…  _are_  like mages. Master mages," Marcurio said after reading for a while. "They wanted to preserve their old culture, so they separated themselves from the rest of the Altmer. They used to advise kings and emperors, but the emperors stopped trusting them."

"Why?" I asked.

"Hmm, it's not clear."

Silence.

"So," I began again, "what do these books mean together?"

"What is that one about?" Jenassa asked, pointing to the book Marcurio had me hold.

"Saarthal," I answered. "A Nord ruin in the north, near Winterhold. Marcurio and I had friends studying there. There was an attack and all but one of the mages there died. The one who lived, Elodie, we think she was saved by these priests called Psijics, but no one will really tell us anything about it."

"So…," Stenvar began, "some conjurer, leadin' a group of mages and necromancers, has been gatherin' zombies, vampires, humans, elves, Khajiit and Argonians for experiments. The vampires said the leader of the group of mages wants to make everyone their slave. Like the Ayleids?"

"Perhaps," Jenassa said.

"So, the Psijics are like master mages," I continued, "who made an island disappear. And, maybe whoever was in that last room disappeared… or, well, she just left through that other door."

"But the Psijics are helping Elodie and the College," Marcurio added, "so I don't think they are the enemy, here. Elodie would have said if the Psijics were not there to help her."

"But, if the Psijics could make an entire  _island_  disappear…," I pondered, looking at Marcurio, wondering if he was riding my brainwave.

"Then…," he began, "they could also possibly make other things disappear. Like people. Or… big things that were kept on flat glass things."

"Glass things that made light and sound," I added, "that gave whoever had it power."

Marcurio nodded.

I bit my lip. "It does not look good for the Psijics."

My mage friend frowned. "I think Elodie should know about this, even if it has nothing to do with the Psijics, in the end. Whoever was making those experiments on the undead… wanting to make slaves…." Marcurio shook his head. "Whoever wanted to make slaves might be related to those who attacked Saarthal."

I stopped in my tracks, and my companions followed. "Marc, what if the thing taken from Saarthal was there, at the fortress?"

Marcurio stared at me with a blank expression for a moment. "No," he finally said, and continued walking, "no, I don't think…. We would have sensed it, I think."

We were all silent for a while. Doubt and confusion was setting in.

We needed to talk to Elodie, Savos Aren, or any other mage who would be in-the-know.

. . . . . .

> _4 Rain's Hand, 203 4E_
> 
> _Deborah,_
> 
> _I was thankful when Marcurio came to help us at Shor's Stone. We had no mages among us – as you know, such a thing would be rare indeed – and our healer was running out of supplies. I wasn't surprised to find out that Marcurio was your friend and Wuunferth's apprentice. He told me all about you and Yrsarald, and of Flavia. I'm truly happy for you and Yrsarald. He is a great man, Ulfric's friend for years, and you deserve no less. I expect this means you will be in Windhelm next time I am there, so I will see you soon._
> 
> _Your friend,_
> 
> _Ralof_

I reread the letter Ralof had given to Marcurio while he was visiting Shor's Stone. The letter was written two days before dragons came to Windhelm, two days before Ulfric was killed, two days before I and everyone else in Windhelm found out that I was Dragonborn. No doubt my soldier friend already knew about me, about Ulfric, and about the orc Dragonborn that killed the jarl. I had a sudden pang of longing for a phone or email, for the ability to immediately talk to Ralof and see how he and his fellow Stormcloaks were faring. I wondered if Eyleif was actually agonizing internally under her chipper exterior.

I tucked the letter back into my pocket and turned to Marcurio. "Thank you for bringing this letter, Marc. But it is," I sighed, "the wrong time. Ulfric was still alive…."

"Yeah, I know." My friend reached over and gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. "So, ehh… do you want to ask her now or later?"

I bit my lip, buying time to muster some courage. "Now."

Marcurio nodded. "Alright; let's go."

I walked up to the woman ahead of me and called out her name. "Selina?"

"Hmm?" The Redguard woman turned to me and Marcurio.

"We need to talk to you," I said quietly.

Selina nodded and walked up to us. "What about?"

We were almost to Whiterun, and conversation had been short after discussing the books we found. Marcurio and I had whispered between ourselves about seeing the green fog effect of the life detection spell, and that he, too, realized that Selina glowed green.

"Please don't be angry, or scared," I began, slowly, "but, we know that you are… different. We know you are not like other humans."

Selina did not falter in her gait, and continued walking alongside us mages, nodding as if we had asked her about her hairdo or outfit. "Yes, I thought you might find out. I trust that you did not say anything…?"

"No, no," Marcurio assured her, "we knew it was not necessary to inform the others."

She nodded again. "Alright. Care to make a guess?"

Marcurio and I exchanged glances. "You're alive, but," Marcurio mused, "not human."

"And, whatever you are," I added, "Vilkas is the same."

She nodded yet again.

"Jenassa said she smelled a wet dog," I said very quietly. I knew what my guess was, but I wasn't going to tell Marcurio  _why_ I thought this. I had to bend the truth a little, and tell my friend that I had heard stories of werebeasts, including wolves and bears. Mindful of my volume, I finally asked, "Selina, are you and Vilkas werewolves?"

We kept walking as if nothing unusual had been asked. Only a few, brief moments passed before Selina finally answered with a single, terse nod.

. . . . . .

The sun was still up when we were back in Whiterun, and we immediately gathered all of our loot from the fortress that we wanted to trade or sell. Stenvar rented a hand cart from the stablehand for this purpose. First, Stenvar wanted to do business with the Khajiit traders that, like at Windhelm, had set up camp outside the city walls. He sold to the cat-people any potions and ingredients that we didn't want, which basically meant anything except healing, magic-regenerating, and what I thought someone called stamina-regenerating potions. They also bought a few of the daggers that members of our group had picked up.

Inside the town, the blacksmith bought some ingots of a blueish-silver metal and the rest of the weapons and armor we'd found that weren't claimed by Vilkas and his group. The alchemist bought what potions and ingredients that the Khajiit traders didn't want. The man at the general goods store bought many things, such as tools, materials that I supposed were used for various crafts, candles, a few mage's robes, and spell tomes that I and Marcurio recognized as containing low-level spells.

We didn't keep much from what we found. The magic-regenerating potions were divided between myself and Marcurio. The healing potions, seven in total, were given to those who wanted them, which excluded the Whiterun guards and Ingjard. Amren kept what he called an 'orc-like', or perhaps 'orcish' sword and a healing potion. Jenassa and Stenvar kept healing and stamina potions. Marcurio kept all and every soul gem we found, and offered to enchant anyone's weapons or armor with them when we returned to the palace. Stenvar kept an odd, bright pink gem that Amren found; he said he knew of someone in Riften who might know what it was and how much it was worth, and would send us all a share of the profit once it was sold. 

In total, from our sold loot we collected over three thousand gold coins from the merchants. Split eleven ways – the remainders of the equal shares were to go to Nafrik's and Fjalar's families – we each walked away two hundred and eighty septims richer. In the end, it wasn't all that much money, but certainly enough compensation for only one day's work.

The position of the sun said it was late afternoon, and my stomach was growling for something other than our traveler's lunch of apples, hard cheese and beef jerky. We decided to patronize the Bannered Mare inn for afternoon snacks and drinks. I was incredibly pleased to learn that the inn had some spiced wine, something I hadn't had in over a year. Marcurio and I shared a bottle. Jenassa, Stenvar, Ingjard and Amren chipped in for two pitchers of mead for the table, and the Whiterun guards settled for one bottle of ale each. The stew that the inn had prepared that day,  _elg_  stew, tasted like venison. I asked what a  _elg_  was, and was told that it was like a deer but bigger. I decided that  _elg_  was probably elk. Sometimes, English and Norren words were frighteningly similar. Or, rather, Norren was frighteningly similar to Norwegian or Old Norse, I supposed. I didn't really want to think about what that meant.

While enjoying the music at the inn, I slipped Selina a note as discretely as possible.  _Please talk with me alone. I have questions._  I knew my writing had gotten better. I hoped it was enough to insinuate that I meant I wanted to talk about her superhuman status, and that I had important reasons to want to do so. When I needed to use the facilities that were in the basement of the inn, I gave Selina a smile and an unnecessarily long glance before leaving.

Thankfully, she got the message.

"So, what is it?" she asked me, arms crossed and a weary look upon her face.

I knew that I should have been truthful with the woman, but I had no idea if I could trust her with secrets that weren't mine. So, I lied. "I have a friend, at the college in Winterhold. When she was on the island of Solstheim, she met a man who… well, he is a werebear."

"A werebear?"

"A werebear. She only told me because I saw his glow one day. I saw that he glowed green." Lies, lies, lies. In fact, I had never seen what color Yrsarald gave off when I cast a life detection spell; I had just never looked. He and every other alive or unalive creature glowed red from my favorite dragon word, though. "And," I continued, "she knew I could keep his secret. So, when I heard Jenassa say she smelled a dog near Vilkas, I thought that might be the reason – he was a werewolf… or a were _dog_. The mages in that fortress wanted creatures of all kinds – human, elf, or others of this world, more than that, like Vilkas, or undead. It is clear to me that you and Vilkas know each other very well, but I don't need to know about this. What I need to know, I ask for my friend. She is human, but her lover is werebear, born that way like the rest of his family. She does not mind, but her lover worries that their children will be like him, not like her. He does not want that. He left Solstheim to get away from the others like him. She never met any others like him to ask, so, I am asking for her – do you know what would happen, if they made children?"

Selina was frowning slightly the entire time I spoke, but when I touched upon the children aspect of my spiel, her frown lines deepened. When I finished asking her my question, she shook her head. "I'm sorry, I can't help you. No one I know, including me, was born this way."

I felt like there was a three car pile-up in my head. "Oh. Were you… bitten?"

"Hmm? Oh, no. Every werewolf I know was happy to become one, me especially."

"So… you don't think it matters, then? Being born a werebeast or becoming one?"

Her expression neutralized. "Women lose the ability to make children when they take the blood of the wolf."

"Oh."

"So, werebears exist, then?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, they do." I smiled. "And now I can tell my friend that I have met werewolves. Do natural werewolves exist? Ones born that way?"

Selina shrugged. "They must, if werebears do." She placed a hand on my shoulder and smiled. "I'm sorry I couldn't help you, or your friend. But, one thing I do know is that when people of different looks or races make children, the child usually takes the looks of the mother. I would guess that goes for everything else, too."

"The mother, hmm? So, if an elf and a human…."

Selina nodded. "The mother, no matter elf or human, would give her child more of her look than the father."

"So… your eyes. They are similar to Amren's, but he has grey eyes. You and Vilkas, you both have silver eyes."

Her mouth widened in a grin as she chuckled. "The blood gives us silver eyes. Yellow when we shift."

"Yellow – yes. That is… what my friend's lover's eyes did. I saw him, in his bear form. Huge."

"And his eyes when in human form – silver?"

"No, blue, just blue."

"Hmph. Then, it is the blood. The magic. Interesting. Though, I do know one of us who has brown eyes." She shrugged. "I don't know why. I'll have to ask him."

I smiled. "So…," my smile spread into a grin, "you and Vilkas?"

Selina returned my smile. "It was good, while it lasted."

. . . . . .

As we made our way to the palace, I heard a man shouting at the top of his lungs, screaming even. He stood by a large statue of who I had learned the other day was of Talos. When I first came upon it, it was nighttime and illuminated by braziers and some torches. In the afternoon light, the statue looked far less magnificent and mysterious, but I saw the serpent, the dragon that Talos was slaying, crushed beneath his feet. I liked his hat. It reminded me of Asterix. But the man before the statue today, by the looks of him a priest, was already getting on my nerves and I had only been hearing him for the last few seconds.

"Who is that awful man?" I asked anyone listening.

"Heimskr," Soring replied. "Priest of Talos. Crazy fucker. I swear by Talos 'imself that there's somethin' not right about 'im. Makes my skin shiver, he does."

"We have… I have met others like him, before." I listened to the priest's words for a moment, slowing my gait as we passed him and the statue. "This is not crazy. The stories I could tell you…."

"Crazier than Heimskr?" Jorik said. "No, thank you. I will have nightmares."

I laughed as we headed towards the steps to the palace. The Whiterun guards parted ways from our group, however. The city guard barracks were near the palace, but not inside; those were reserved for the actual palace guards. I hoped I would cross paths with Selina again. I knew that Yrsarald would be interested to learn that I met a werewolf.

The palace was named Dragon's Reach for its legendary capability to catch a dragon on its huge balcony. I didn't really believe the tale Jenassa had related, mainly because I didn't believe a dragon would be stupid enough to fall for a human trap, nor refrain from burning its captors and the palace with its fire breath. There was also no such mechanism on the balcony that could have been used to restrain a dragon. I imagined the scenario in my mind – a dragon held captive on the balcony, head pointed towards the doors, would burn everything and everyone with fire; turned the other way, its tail would spike or swat people to death. The idea was just entirely impractical.

Once inside, we were met by what must have been the entire household, dining at the long banquet table. Balgruuf was sitting next to three children; a relatively young woman, decidedly not the Jarl's wife by the look of her plain dress, was fussing over the youngest one. I figured she was their nanny.

Jarl Balgruuf finally registered our arrival and wiped his mouth with a cloth before standing from the table and walking toward our group. "Ah, Jenassa and her  _felgaskap_. I hope you have brought me some good news."

"Yes, and no," Jenassa answered after a short hesitation. "We retrieved some information, rescued several Companions and destroyed the fortress entrances, but the necromancer fled before we could reach her."

Balgruuf turned to gaze back at his family and staff. "Let us speak elsewhere."

In the room with the large map, the one with towering doors leading to the balcony, Jenassa, Stenvar, Marcurio, Amren, Ingjard and I stood by the Jarl's desk. I was incredibly anxious to begin discussing what we had found.

"So, what information did you gather?" the Jarl finally asked.

"We found books," I blurted.

"Books?"

"In the fortress. There were books – we need to speak with my friends at the college in Winterhold. Marcurio was going to write letters tonight."

"I thought there were necromancers there. Why are these books you found so worrisome?"

"Because they were on stands in a room for rituals. Three books, three stands. One, in the middle, was a book about Saarthal."

"The ruin that was attacked?"

"Yes. I was there. Marcurio was there. After the attack, I mean. We think the necromancer knows something about what was taken from there, or perhaps she was there with the attackers. Only the mage council knows; they won't tell me anything."

Balgruuf crossed his arms. "What else?"

"A book about the Ayleids," Jenassa chimed in, "and, oh, what were they called?"

"The Psijics," Marcurio answered, "and their island that disappeared. The Psijics were somehow involved with Saarthal – they helped a friend of ours who survived the attack – but we don't know more. We're not sure what the Ayleids have in common with the Psijics and Saarthal."

"Except," I continued, "the necromancer there, she and her mage partners wanted to make slaves of everyone, learning from vampires, practicing…."

"Vampires!?" Balgruuf took a step back.

"I think,  _we_  think, that the people who attacked Saarthal are related to this necromancer in some way. Not likely the Psijics, because they are helping our friend, but… something. We need to talk to the Arch-Mage of the college at Winterhold, and to our friend Elodie."

"There were zombies, there," Stenvar added. "Some were soldiers, from both sides. Whoever's doin' this, they're hurtin' all of Skyrim. And the dragons sure aren't helpin', of course."

 _Good points, Stenvar_ , I thought, awarding him the hint of a smile. I had a feeling that Saarthal and zombies were connected, and my friends agreed with me. On the walk back to Whiterun we had talked about the possibility of the Mage's Council needing to meet, and that it might be time for the jarls to meet, too. Dragons and necromancers were affecting the entire country. The only thing preventing the jarls from meeting earlier, Stenvar had reminded me, was the civil war, and that the Jarl of Solitude would have likely ripped out Ulfric's neck with her teeth if she got the chance. And though the Stormcloak Rebellion was not dead, Ulfric was, and it was now possible, Stenvar figured, for the jarls to sit in a room together and not kill each other.

Balgruuf removed his jeweled crown and scratched his head. He replaced the crown with a sigh, and then we stood in silence for a while as he stared at the floor. "I have heard rumors of the risen dead," Balgruuf finally reacted, "more than just from my Hold. Soldiers killed in battle, not staying dead, brothers and shield-sisters having to cut off each other's head." He crossed his arms again and stared at the large map, soon fiddling with a red-and-silver horse figurine that had been poised near a town called Falkreath. "And, certainly, the dragons have become a real worry." The Jarl turned to me with a grim look on his face. "I believe it is time for the jarls to meet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, Deb and Marcurio talk about dreams and gods.
> 
> Here's a list of Norren words used in the last fourteen chapters, in order, except where already included in previous notes.
> 
> Thath Era Dovahn – There Be Dragons  
> Kulatrint – Exterminated  
> Unaza – Eternal  
> Nindalafa - Immortal  
> Singava – Unyielding  
> Klukt – Hatched  
> Fjelkar – Breed  
> Aadaken – Invaders  
> Uth – Spray  
> Rokrezaar – Logically  
> Medaethra – Fearsome  
> Ugjena – Impenetrable  
> Ginnil – Void  
> Vosa – Infinite  
> Vogat – Defied  
> Bjothig – Summoning  
> Othen – Orphans  
> Nynnig – Humming  
> Tyk – Bitch  
> Volginen – Savages/Barbarians  
> Svasa – Beloved  
> Upjafir – Veteran  
> Felan – We/They Send/Commend  
> Afle – Gatherer  
> Skiftar – Shift  
> Vunra – Content  
> Fyra – Former  
> Vurmund – Hall Of Valor  
> Arverrek – Lineage  
> Ervthask – Will (And Testament)  
> Gekala – Fermented  
> Sekmiren – Herder  
> Avlethingen – Consequences  
> Vig – Fortress/Keep  
> Butti – Hunk/Piece  
> Krofton – Corruption  
> Heila Tholet – Sacred Artifact  
> Fyra Moro – Former Glory  
> Kroft – Corrupted  
> Sparlegaar – Sparingly  
> Sotath – Nightshade  
> Ytraltefn – Ectoplasm  
> Mjol – Meal (Powder)  
> Agalaar – Carelessly  
> Ramiken – Mudcrabs  
> Birg – Supply  
> Vithganta – Appropriate  
> Gengangiren – Revenants/Zombies  
> Skinun – Perception  
> Ethla – Quality/Trait  
> Breneil – Holy Fire  
> Balsamert – Embalmed  
> Lekig – Leaking  
> Enskurthur – Sequestered  
> Ypstemil – Nondescript  
> Lutla – Neutral  
> Geisla – Radiates  
> Gelt – Flirted  
> Lostrar – Admit/Disclose  
> Mamuten – Mammoths  
> Stinig – Moaning  
> Varukar – Gossip/Blather  
> Marila – Selfish  
> Borthikur – Bannered  
> Skylt – Placard  
> Felgaskap - Group/Band/Party  
> Fen – Cow  
> Gypt – Gift  
> Iz – Ice  
> Mathir – Man  
> Samraar – Accordingly  
> Sistrin – Cousin (Includes Second, Third, Etc)  
> Avnetar – Disown  
> Borga – Civil  
> Naga – Cute/Quaint  
> Muna – Fell (Evil)  
> Frifilen – Volunteers  
> Strag – Feat  
> Lukas – Close/Shut/Obstruct  
> Verund – Porch/Balcony  
> Ravundiniken – Pilgrims  
> Klifar – Hike/Climb  
> Noga – Plenty/Suitable  
> Vatin – Incentive  
> Jaren – Goals  
> Minon – Remembrance  
> Lysig – Declaring  
> Gathal – Stamina  
> Faretispig – Gambling  
> Sothnaten – Vampires  
> Ressa – Thrilling  
> Spra – Spread/Scattered  
> Ordrik – Saying/Idiom  
> Skaflin – Mood  
> Framanta – Foreign/Exotic  
> Tilranig/Tilranen – Experimenting/Experiments  
> Skraena – Shitty  
> Nithich – Babblin'  
> Nestar – Vouch  
> Ostathatur – Disoriented  
> Bindt – Blindfolded  
> Volpen – Puppies/Welps, Young'uns  
> Spaken – Levers  
> Kunina – Feminine  
> Aktranta – Tough/Stern  
> Gripa – Grabby/Handsy ("Rapacious/Esurient")  
> Elg - Elk


	15. Heavenly Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hat tip to Child of Sithis who mentioned that Deb should try touch a shrine at some point. The idea fit in perfectly for this chapter.

 

_The morning light seeped in through the windows, waking me gently. But my head was heavy and the bed warm, and the last thing I wanted to do was get up. I stirred under the thick duvet and the warm body next to me did as well. Still unwilling to open my eyes and face the morning, I let myself be wrapped in strong, warm arms. Soft, quiet, little moans of contentment were offered by the both of us as we spooned under the duvet. A kiss to the back of my neck gave me a little tingle, and I chuckled groggily. Lips traced the curve of my shoulder and back again, and an adventurous hand splayed its fingers over the more fleshy part of my naked body. Everything was too perfect; leaving this small piece of heaven would have been a sin._

" _Mm," I heard the man behind me faintly grunt, "mornin', sweetheart."_

 _I froze._ I know that voice _, I said to myself. I spun around violently and nearly screamed when I saw a naked Stenvar under the duvet – under the cotton duvet on top of cotton sheets, head on a cotton pillow against a swirling brass headboard. Behind him was a night table complete with a table lamp, digital alarm clock, and a mobile phone._

" _What the hell?" I covered my chubby, naked self with the duvet. My head was swimming, as if I were hung-over. "Oh god, I feel—"_

" _Like you drank the bar dry? Yeah, I was worried about that. You didn't drink enough water when we got home."_

" _Wh—…?" I stared at Stenvar, whose chest no longer boasted an intricate tattoo of vines and Dibella's flower, but rather various old-school tattoos, including one with my name written over a heart. "What the hell, Stenvar?"_

_He laughed. "Stenvar? Are ya havin' a stroke?" He sat up and put his hand to my head. "No fever." His accent had changed wildly to something like Scottish. He was also speaking English. So was I._

_I pushed his hand away from my forehead. "I'm hung over," I said. "Where…," I looked around the room. "Where the hell…." I looked to my side of the bed. My night table had a bunch of crap on it: ear plugs and pill cases, a glass of water and a tissue box, and what looked like a smart phone. "What the fuck…."_

" _Deb?" Stenvar called my name._

_I ignored the naked man behind me and picked up the smart phone. It was on. The swipe lock screen showed a photo of me and Stenvar, looking happy and acting silly. I swiped it unlocked and looked at the date. Saturday, June 6_ _th_ _, 2020. "What?" I gasped._

" _Don't worry, it's Saturday. You should sleep in," he chuckled, and then stood from the bed. I turned briefly to get a glimpse of naked Stenvar, and quickly turned away. I found the Messages section of the phone; the only texts were from a guy named Steve._

" _Steve…?" I whispered._

" _Hmm?" Stenvar called._

_Still holding the phone, I turned to look at Stenvar, eyes glued to his. "Wh-what's… I…."_

" _Jesus," he laughed, "did someone slip somethin' in your daiquiris last night?" He thankfully slid on a pair of pajama pants before walking back over to me. "Better throw on somethin' if you're gettin' up. The kids'll be up soon."_

_I stared at the man in front of me, stared at the big red heart on his chest with my name inked on the ribbon around it. "Kids…," I said, assertively and yet doused in confusion._

_Stenvar chortled, shook his head, and grabbed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He walked over to the window, opened it, and sat on the outset window seat for a smoke._

_Without warning, the bedroom door opened and a skinny little girl with white-blonde hair and grey eyes scampered in, yelling something about Saturday. She jumped on the bed, nearly tearing the duvet away from my naked bosom. "Mammy, Mammy, Mammy!" she squealed, wrapping her little arms around my covered waist. She couldn't have been more than five years old._

_I stared at her, wide-eyed and terrified. When a red-headed older boy walked in, rubbing sleep from his eyes, I thought I might faint. "Vee woke me uuuppp," he groaned before falling onto the billowy duvet on the bed next to the little girl. The boy also had a Scottish accent._

_I looked from the boy to Stenvar. The man remained calm and content, finishing his morning cigarette. He looked back at me. "What? I told you."_

_My jaw was open and my mind paralyzed._ What. The. Fuck. Is. Happening?

 _Stenvar, noticing my frustration, grunted, extinguished the cigarette in a tray, and walked over to the bed. "Alright, m'_ bairns _." He stressed the Scottish word, as if it wasn't a common thing for him to say. "Go on downstairs; I'll make ya some breakfast in a bit, yeah?"_

_The boy groaned. "Alright, da. Can I play some games?"_

" _Yeah, yeah," Stenvar said, waving off the boy._

_The two children ran out of the bedroom and down a set of stairs, their laughter soon fading into the depths of the house._

_Stenvar walked over to me. "Are you alright? You look terrified."_

. . . . . .

"Deb. Deb…."

A woman's voice and the sensation of being nudged barely registered. I awoke with a start for the second morning in a row. I was in bed, in the guestroom in the palace that Balgruuf had said I could stay in with my bodyguard. Ingjard was kneeling at my side. " _What_  the  _fuck_!?"

"What? What was it? More dragons?"

I turned to see Ingjard, wide-eyed with concern. "I… yes. Yes. Dragons. And zombies. And vampires." I lay back down, pulling the covers around me, tucking in the truth.

"Perhaps you should visit the Hall of the Dead – see a priest of Arkay, pray at his  _belur_. You said he had something to do with you being here, so, perhaps he will give you some answers." Ingjard stood and grabbed her underarmor that had been washed overnight; she was wearing only underwear at the moment. "Besides, you have been having too many bad dreams. I worry."

" _You_ worry…."

"Yes, Deborah, I worry. You are my  _noth_. It is my job to worry about you." I turned my gaze back to the ceiling. A moment of rustling and gathering of items passed before she spoke again. "I'm going for a bath. You should come, too. Breakfast will be served soon – I can smell it."

Ingjard left, and I lay still for a moment before deciding what to do. I agreed that I should bathe, but first I needed to ease my mind. I plopped Meridia's Light onto the bed and sat down cross-legged in front of it, just as I had before. When I was ready, I cupped my palms around the cut rock. "Alright, Meridia," I began. "Why am I having such strange dreams? Why do I keep dreaming of Stenvar?"

Silence.

. . . . . .

Word was immediately sent to the other eight Jarls once Balgruuf decided that it should be done. Something called a ' _stornegrin_ ', a meeting of all Jarls, was to be held. I heard Balgruuf mutter that the meeting should have happened over two years ago, but that the war had gotten in the way.

Stenvar, well-versed in many of Skyrim's customs, explained to me that meetings of the Jarls were generally held when a High King died. Ulfric killed the last King in a duel, and protocol said he should have taken Torygg's place. Many citizens protested, however, and the King's widow, Elisif, now Jarl of Solitude, had called for Ulfric's death. The fact that Elisif so vehemently despised Ulfric, understandably, made me nervous. I worried that Yrsarald, Ulfric's chosen heir, would be killed. Stenvar promised me that this wouldn't happen, though; all weapons were laid down for these meetings. Indeed, a truce was called; in their language, a 'weapon-rest'.

"And assassins always obey laws," I had muttered in response to Stenvar's attempted pacification of my nerves.

Joining the Jarls would be all the court mages, as well as Mirabelle Ervine, I assumed, in the stead of Arch-Mage Savos Aren, to hold another session of the Mage's Council. Along with Balgruuf's letter to Winterhold was sent Marcurio's, asking that both Savos Aren and Elodie be present, not just Mirabelle. In the letter Marcurio explained exactly why their presence was requested. We figured our suspicions about the fortress would be enough to pique their interests.

Because the Jarls and court mages would arrive in about a week's time, Balgruuf insisted that I and my crew stay in the city; he even offered me a room in the palace to share with Yrsarald once he arrived. I accepted, but only because Balgruuf agreed to give Ingjard and Marcurio quarter as well. Ingjard and all other bodyguards were allowed to remain on-call once the meetings took place, but were to hang back a polite distance. Marcurio on the other hand would have to wait for Wuunferth's approval. Jenassa and Stenvar were not invited to the meetings, but they were planning to stay in town as long as I was there, just in case another opinion on the fortress was needed after all. Jenassa had a permanent room rented from a lodge in town, and Stenvar was going to sleep there as well, with her. It did not take me long to realize that Jarl Balgruuf had lied about not having enough rooms in the palace to house seven people – there were at least a dozen guest rooms, some large and some small. I chose not to let this realization bother me, though.

To pass the time until Yrsarald arrived, Marcurio and I, without Ingjard, explored the town. Ingjard was happy to have some time off to visit with her sister.

Marcurio had only been to Whiterun once before and was eager to see what had changed. "More merchants have come, I see," he said as we strolled into a different part of the town, away from the market square. "There wasn't a  _soma_ -woman before."

Judging by the kiosk with a woman fussing over tailored garments, I figured he meant 'seamstress'. "Ah," I said. I wasn't able to focus fully on Marcurio's casual ramblings about the city's economic changes and, unable to reign in my wandering thoughts any longer, eventually blurted, "I've been having strange dreams."

"Strange how?"

"Almost like… as if they are showing the future. But, they are not. In one dream, I was married to Ulfric. And, well, that cannot be. In the other, I fell from a dragon…." I bit lip, wondering how much I should tell him. I decided that I would tell Marcurio now, and ask him how much I should tell Yrsarald. "In both dreams… there was Stenvar. In the one with Ulfric, I was married to him. I was High Queen, I think, but I was… having sex… with Stenvar." I cleared my throat, somewhat embarrassed at the admission. "In the second dream, I fell from the dragon into Stenvar's arms. I don't know what any of it means. I think it is just… dreams, you know? Stress, probably. But, last night…."

"Last night?"

"I've had… very clear, very real dreams before, here in Skyrim. Usually they are about dragons or zombies…. But, last night, I dreamt I was in my world. It was the future, Marc, years from now…. Well, years from when I left. Stenvar was there." Marcurio turned to me, stunned. I nodded.  _Yes, you heard me right_. "It was him, I'm sure. Except, he had a different name – a name from my world that sounded like his name, here. He… he was the same person. Exactly the same." I briefly thought about whether or not to mention the most unusual part, but decided to just get it all out there. In a whisper, I added, "We had children."

"Oh, wow."

"And, I felt like I was truly there, as if I woke up one morning in a different life. I was confused in the dream, just as I am now. I called him Stenvar in the dream, and he, well, he thought I was just very hung-over." I shook my head, not believing my own memory. "I tried to ask Meridia what was going on, but I received no answer."

"Perhaps Daedra Lords have better things to do than tell you that they are merely dreams."

"But, Marc, merely a dream? I was there. I know I was there. Just like… Yrsarald, he had that dream about Saarthal, remember?"

"Yes…."

"And he said that he felt as if he was truly there, even though he had never been to Saarthal. How is that possible? It was not  _merely_  a dream. It was  _not_ , and neither are my dreams. I'm certain."

"It is not just you."

I stopped walking and turned to my friend. "What do you mean?"

"I've had very  _lafanda_  dreams too. Especially in the last year."

"You have? What about?"

Marcurio smiled. "That is private."

I stared, confused for a moment, and then my eyes widened in realization. "Oh." I giggled. "But, were they of the future, do you think? Or… perhaps, another life?"

"No, just the past, or today. But yes, I too feel like I was in the dream, much more so than usual." Marcurio looked past me. "I think that's the Temple of Kynareth."

"Kynareth?... Kyne?"

"Yes. Come on!" Marcurio grasped my hand, and with a playful, trotting gait he led me to the temple.

The building looked like any other in the town – very Nordic with wood beams and logs, wood shingles, and even carved dragon heads on each peak. The temple was tall, having what looked like two levels and an attic. The interior, however, was nothing short of breathtakingly beautiful. Well, aside from the multitude of groaning, broken and bleeding wounded and sick people strewn across the expansive temple floor. Despite the immediate, grotesque reality of the purpose for the temple, the gilded wooden pillars topped with vining plants, gilded wall paintings, and carved wooden designs along the wall made for a stunning structure.

"Mind where you step!" called a woman's voice. She then returned to chanting under her breath as she prayed over the body of someone either unconscious, dying, or already dead.

Marcurio took a look around the temple, and then led me on a path through the decrepit. Most people lay on wooden pallets, but others were simply afforded a scrap of linen or leather.

"So many," I muttered.

"It must be the war. Almost all of them are soldiers. See the red and steel uniforms? Those are Imperials."

"Yes, I remember…."

"Only a few Stormcloaks," Marcurio observed.

"Where are we going?" I finally asked.

"To the  _belur_. You should see if praying to Kynareth makes you feel the same way you have been feeling sometimes. That 'good' feeling. If it is truly Kynareth's blessing, the  _belur_  should make you feel the same."

To the right of the entrance stood a table with four silver candlesticks bearing large, pillar candles, each flanking an odd-looking, silver-purple thing with a large blue inset gem. The silver-purple object looked like a futuristic biking helmet. Stepping closer to the object, I could see stylized swirls, which I supposed represented either water or wind. Oddly, the blue gem, the size of my mouth and having the appearance of ultra-clear blue glass, was flanked by what might have been two diamonds. Looking down at the object, it almost looked like a mask. Or an owl's face.

"This is the  _belur_."

I ignored the discordant groans of the ill and injured that we were standing next to. "The thing in the middle?"

"Yes."

I supposed ' _belur_ ' meant 'shrine'. "What does it do?"

"You have to pray to the God, whichever shrine you visit. Pray, and ask for their blessing."

"Does it matter what I say?"

"I suppose not. I just know you have to be touching it for the blessing to work." Marcurio pressed his palms against the flat surface of the front of the metallic object, just below the diamond eyes. He closed his eyes. He must have been praying silently. When he chuckled and his cheek dimpled in a grin, I figured the prayer had been received. When the diamond eyes and blue gem of the shrine statuette lit up from behind, I  _knew_  his prayer had been received. "Heh, wow." He opened his eyes and took a step back. "Well, I think it worked. It's been a while since I prayed at a shrine. Usually I pray to Arkay; I will have to visit the Hall of the Dead as soon as we're done here." Marcurio backed away and gestured for me to take his place. "Go on, try it."

I did as Marcurio had done. Palms pressed to the cool, curved purple metal, I closed my eyes, and thought about what to say to a goddess.  _Kyne. Kynareth,_  I thought to myself _, you may know me as Meridia's champion – the one she brought to this world from another. She tells me you helped me then, when I came here; helped people be patient with me so that I might learn their language. Now, it seems I am learning your other language, the one you gave to the ancient Nords. Jarl Balgruuf told me the legend, a legend of which I am now a part, I suppose. I wonder if it is you, again, who has been blessing me, sending me these feelings of warmth, and making me so hungry, lately. If it is indeed you who is doing this, please give me a sign somehow; make me feel that way, now. I promise, I'm not even angry anymore about the breast milk._  I waited, but nothing happened.  _Kyne, if it is true that I am Dragonborn, or at least a Child of Akatosh, I am told I will be learning more of your language, the language of dragons. I will be 'shouting' like the men with grey beards atop that big mountain – at High Hrothgar. I will be worshiping you. Should I not, then, know what it feels like to know your blessing?_

And then it came, the warmness. Kyne's blessing swept over me like a moderately-satisfying orgasm, like a full-body joint-crack from a chiropractor, like a shot of endorphins. "Ohhh!" I stepped back from the shrine; Marcurio caught me before I stumbled onto a wounded soldier.

My friend chuckled. "There, now. Was that familiar?"

I stared wide-eyed at the glowing gems of the shrine until their light faded. I nodded, slowly at first, and then more rapid. "Yes. Yes. It was that. Kyne… Kynareth…. It's her. I… well, unless all blessings feel the same?"

Marcurio smiled. "No, they don't all feel the same. Kynareth's blessing, like you have mentioned, gives the  _heite_  a feeling of warmth and energy. Arkay's blessing makes the  _heite_  feel strong."

"And the other gods?"

"I'm not sure."

"Can I help you?" A man with long, flowing dark hair and a full beard approached us. He was wearing the same orange-clay colored hide robe as the other woman we saw.

"No, thanks. We just came to pray." Marcurio glanced at the floor before continuing. "Do you… need any help?"

The robed man looked annoyed for only a moment, but soon his shoulders sank in obvious concession. "Yes, actually. You two are mages? From the College? Do either of you know any healing spells? We're quite tired, ourselves…."

. . . . . .

While taking a break from healing at the Temple of Kynareth, Marcurio and I made the short walk to the Hall of the Dead – something that apparently every big city had – so that my friend could pray to Arkay at his shrine. When I asked him why he wanted to pray to Arkay, he told me that his mother, Alessandra, and her father before her were priests of Arkay. He wasn't on the best of terms with his mother since leaving Riften in pursuit of the mage's college, but he still prayed to Arkay often, among other gods.

I quietly looked around the Hall while Marcurio prayed at the altar. The shrine of Arkay was placed in a nice little area inside the Hall of the Dead. The stone walls and floor were accented by blood-red draperies and carpets. An old woman was sitting on one of the wooden benches, hands folded on her lap and eyes closed. She appeared content in her prayer. On the left side of the shrine alcove stood a small tree, in a planter, covered by a healthy dose of small yellow-green leaves. On the right side was planted a small, dead tree, dry and devoid of any life.  _Life and death, indeed_ , I thought. The Hall of the Dead in Windhelm, a glorified morgue, was nothing like this. This Hall was practically cheerful.

The shrine statuette was flanked by lots of candles, several of which were unlit. There were three thin wooden sticks lying by one of the candle holders, and I wondered if, like in a Catholic church, people could come in and light a candle for someone. The statuette itself was a dark purple, engraved metal in the shape of an eight-pointed star surrounding a sphere. Suddenly the statuette's globe became encased in light, and Marcurio sighed.

"Alright, alright; I'll tell her," muttered a masculine voice some distance behind me. I turned to see an old, bald man with a fantastic, long grey beard, wearing a similar tan robe that most priests seemingly wore. Much like monks on Earth, priests in Skyrim were apparently humble, modest people. The man approached, brisk for an older gentleman. He looked both to me and Marcurio and then, turning back to me, asked, "Deborah?" Somewhat confused for a moment as to how the man knew my name, I stalled a bit before answering him, confirming that Deborah was indeed my name. The priest continued without any further hesitancy. "I have a message for you, from Arkay."

Again, confusion froze my lips for a brief moment. "Wh-what?" I eventually asked, brain suddenly running on all cylinders, trying to fully comprehend what the man's last comment meant.

The priest nodded once, but it was unclear what he was nodding about. "'You have a cute dog'."

 _Dog!?... Sam. SAM._ "What!?" I repeated, dumbfounded.

"He says there was a dog," the priest answered, "and two women who looked like you." The priest shrugged. "I hope you know what that means, because I am  _vanvitana_. My name is Andurs, by the way. Come find me if you have need of me." The priest then turned to walk away without further ado.

I stood there, a statue, wondering what had just happened. Marcurio grabbed my hand.

"Wait!" I called, pushing Marcurio's hand from mine and jogging the short distance after the priest. I tugged at the priest's hide robe as he turned to me, an expression far calmer than mine adorning his face. "What do you mean? Are you saying that Arkay saw my dog? My family!? Does the god speak to you!?"

The priest smiled warmly, perhaps familiar with my level of agitation. "Yes, often. Though, not usually about someone rumored to be Dragonborn." He smiled again. "Has His words upset you? I do apologize. I only repeat what I am told." The old man turned away, looking to the middle space, and then turned back to me. "He says 'your funeral was lovely', and, 'it is always darkest before the dawn'." The priest's brow furrowed. "I don't understand. Your funeral?" He then chuckled cheerfully. "He was singing that last message."

"Deb…," Marcurio called softly, stepping again close behind me and bracing me as if I might fall. He said nothing more to me, but his expression was a serious one.  _Listen to him_ , his eyes told me.

I turned back to the priest. "You speak to Arkay…." I said, confirming, and yet still doubtful.

"Indeed I do. Many priests of Arkay, if they've served Him long enough, are gifted in such a way. It surprises me that Arkay would want  _flutar_ such a simple message, but I am no one to question Him. I admit though that I am curious. What did Arkay mean by 'your funeral'? Are you a ghost?" The priest chuckled again. "It would not be the first time I conversed with one, especially over the last few months."

"I—no, I am not a ghost." Marcurio squeezed my arm, encouraging. "I died, in my world." I was getting so used to telling everyone about my re-creation that I was beginning not to care how crazy the whole thing still sounded to my own ears. I gazed at the calm old man a moment longer. "I had a funeral," I concluded. "Well, that is…." My brain suddenly felt like it was pudding, jiggling and wobbling about inside my skull. "I need to…." I scrambled for a nearby bench, aided by Marcurio. I sat with a huff and set my gaze upon a crack in a stone in the floor of the Hall.  _Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._  Marcurio, sitting next to me, squeezed my arms as he held me close to him. My breath had quickened somewhat, but I forced it to slow. I then laughed. " _'Shake It Out'_ ," I said to myself the English title of my favorite song from years ago. "Gods damn it," I muttered as I lowered my elbows to my knees, and then my head to my hands.

Marcurio rubbed my back. "Sorry," he said, to the priest, I supposed.

"Oh, it is of no matter," I heard the priest say. The Hall was silent then for a while, until the priest spoke again. "Hm, yes. I too would be anxious if I had been reborn into another world and separated from my family."

"Family," I repeated. I looked up at the priest, Anders or something like that, and said with a cracking voice, "How did he see my family!?"

The priest frowned, and then took on a contemplative look. I waited impatiently for an answer. "'Weak walls'," the old man finally replied. "'The dog sensed me. Your mother did not sense me'. Hmph. You must be one special Dragonborn for Arkay to bring you back to life. It is against everything He stands for, I would think. I will have to assume He knows what He is doing. But, please excuse me; I have to return to my duties."

Marcurio and I remained seated in silence, watching the priest leave for the depths of the Hall, and then stared at nothing in particular for a while, contemplating.

. . . . . .

While we waited for the Jarls to arrive, Marcurio and I decided to work regularly with the healers at the Temple of Kynareth. Danica was the woman we had seen briefly, the head priestess, and her apprentice was the man with the long dark hair, Jenssen. The priests at the temple had indeed been overwhelmed by not only injured soldiers from either side of the war, but also sick or injured locals. Life in the cities didn't stop just because there was a war on.

Danica said that she was impressed by how long I could heal someone without resting. I mentioned to her how everyone's magic was getting stronger, lately, and that I also wore enchanted jewelry, something that I had not realized was actually quite rare, as soul gems themselves were rare. I hadn't realized this fact before, not really; working constantly with Wuunferth and seeing soul gems everywhere at the college, I had grown accustomed to the abundance of the enchanting supplies, not quite putting together the fact that Windhelm had made an agreement with the Jarl of Winterhold to send them food and supplies in exchange for the gems. I knew that an agreement existed, I just didn't realize the implications. Soul gems were actually very, very rare and hard to come by, particularly because they could only be used once. I made a note to self to ask Stenvar, later, what he knew about where the gems were obtained; I was certain he would know.

In the end, enchanted weapons, armor and jewelry were very expensive, something not even professional healers owned. The jewelry, combined with my enchanted mage's robe, explained my deep reserves of magic, as far as the healers knew, anyway. I didn't mention to them what Savos had told me, that I was fashioned in this world to have deep reserves of magic to begin with.

While taking a break later on our first day at the temple, Marcurio and I continued our conversation about my dreams. "So, I'm not sure how much I should say to Yrsarald. He knows about me and Stenvar – what we did. He doesn't know details, he didn't want to know, but he knows he and I… you know…. Do you think if I told him about these dreams, especially that last one, he will… I don't know, be angry? Jealous? They are just dreams, but…. Oh, I don't know what to do."

"Hmph…. Well, I haven't told Bird about all of my dreams. Like I said, some of them are private, personal. I'm sure Bird has dreams he doesn't want to tell me about, and I'm sure Yrsarald is the same. He didn't even tell you about his Saarthal dream."

"No, but he doesn't tell me about his dreams unless they are amusing. And I don't read his dream journal."

Marcurio slouched back in his chair and took another bite of his sandwich. "I say, tell him about the dreams, but, perhaps don't tell him the  _delen_. I wish you hadn't told me the  _delen_  with Ulfric."

"You asked…."

"Yes, I did." My friend made an odd face and then took a violent bite out of his sandwich, but I just laughed.

"Alright, but, what if Yrsa  _asks_  for the… 'delen'? Should I just say, 'you probably do not want to know', hoping he will say not to tell him?"

"If he asks for the  _delen_ , you can tell him; but, I think, for some things…. Maybe you can pretend not to remember. It is one thing to have a dream where you were married to Ulfric, and an entirely different thing to admit to having violent sex with him."

" _Kffft_."

Marcurio chuckled.

When the two of us grew tired from healing at the temple, we would spend our breaks visiting Andurs, not Anders, in the Hall of the Dead. Most of the time he did not hear Arkay's voice, and when he did, I would not receive any answers to my various questions. All I knew was that all was well with my family and that I had a funeral. Andurs did not have that much time to spare for me, as most of his days were usually spent tending to the recently deceased, presiding over funerals or preparing bodies for burning or burial. Other days he conducted naming ceremonies for babies, just as Helgird had for Flavia.

Marcurio mentioned that he did not think his mother spoke with Arkay. He imagined she was glad for this, though, as he was pretty sure that the petulant woman would not have wanted the god inside her head.

. . . . . .

Finally, five days after Balgruuf sent out the letters to the Jarls, they began to arrive. Yrsarald was not among them, but he lived farther away and would likely take several more days, given the distance both he and the courier had to travel.

I was getting both excited and nervous as I watched the processions as they occurred, noting that each Jarl that arrived had a bodyguard, a soldier, and a court mage accompanying him or her. Every one of them wore a diadem like Balgruuf, and I wondered if Yrsarald would show up wearing one. The thought made me giggle.

It was two days before my thirty-first birthday, and Yrsarald and the Jarl of Markarth, a city far to the west, were still not in Whiterun. Marcurio joked that Yrsarald was waiting to make a grand entrance on my birthday, but I doubted that very much. At the very least, it would have taken three days for the courier to arrive in Windhelm plus a three day trip from there. Add time to prepare for travel, or perhaps gather Galmar from wherever he might have been, I figured Yrsarald was right on schedule. If Yrsarald didn't arrive on my birthday, Marcurio promised to buy me drinks, and would invite Ingjard, Stenvar and Jenassa to join us.

That day for lunch, Marcurio and I headed to the Bannered Mare. Once our bowls of soup, bread, and bottle of wine were ordered, we spotted a familiar face in the crowd, sitting across from an unfamiliar one.

"Hey, Stenvar," I called over the din of the patrons as I approached him.

He was surprised at first, but soon smiled. "Hey Deb, Marcurio. Have a seat." Stenvar was sitting at a bench with a woman somewhat younger than him by the look of her face; she had long, grey hair, however. "This is my cousin, Olfina," Stenvar continued.

"Stenvar's friend Deborah…," Olfina confirmed to herself. "Finally." She smiled, and we clasped forearms. "And… Marcurio?"

"Good afternoon, Olfina," Marcurio chimed as he shifted his arm away from hers only to grasp her hand and plant a gentlemanly kiss on its back.

The woman giggled. "Oh, my…."

Marcurio chuckled heartily and then, unexpectedly, took a seat on the bench next to Stenvar; I sat next to the woman, wondering if Marcurio had intentionally prevented me from sitting next to the sellsword.

Olfina turned to her side to speak to me. "Stenvar tells me that you're Dragonborn, and the Champion of Meridia, and a great mage." Olfina then turned to Marcurio. "And you, too; two great mages. I'm not sure I've ever met a mage before, except for the healers at the temple."

"Never? That's horrible." Marcurio grinned, winning a chuckle from the young woman.

"So, Deb," Stenvar began, clearing his throat, "I was just now tellin' Olfina about Flavia the Unexpected."

I looked across the table to my friend, certain I had misunderstood him. "What? Why?" I turned to Olfina, who had since turned a bit pale. "Oh." Details of what Jenassa had told me about Stenvar's cousin reentered my memory – secret lover, secret marriage, family money, and interfamily discord. Olfina and her secret husband Jon were basically Juliet and Romeo, and now Juliet was pregnant.

Olfina nodded. "Yes. Very new; no one yet knows, not even Jon. I...," she leaned in closer to me, speaking in barely more than a whisper. "I can't tell anyone here; people will talk. I can't even talk to my mother. I was… hoping you might know of a way to… make me not… you know. I know that you didn't do this and that you… 'let the bread bake'… but… maybe you at least thought of it? Know what might be available?"

I frowned, and looked across the table to a frowning Marcurio; the man had been desperate to try to convince me not to terminate my pregnancy, ever-hopeful that he would be a father. Unable to return my gaze any longer, Marcurio looked down at the table and subtly shook his head. I sighed, and turned back to Olfina. "Marcurio and I have a friend who is an alchemist. She knows how to make a potion for what you want. But, Olfina...," I lowered my voice, "the potion might not allow you to ever make more children. That is why I did not want to take it."

"Oh." The grey-haired, twenty-something woman frowned and looked to her hands, folded together on the table.

Stenvar clasped them with his own. "I'm sorry, Olfina, I didn't know."

And then, she smiled. "It's alright." She nodded. "Yes. Maybe… it is time. Jon has wanted to go to Solitude for a long time now, but did not want to leave me. I think… now would be the best time. He thinks that I might be able to live with him at the College, there."

"College?" I asked.

"The Bards College," Olfina explained. "Jon has a wonderful voice, but he's shy about it. He wants to train officially, learn all the songs and poems and stories, write a few of his own."

Stenvar smiled at his young cousin. "Are you gonna tell them, or just leave?"

"I can't tell them, at least not as I sit here now. I will write them a letter." She nodded, agreeing with herself. "Yes, a letter, which you can give to them,  _long_ after I've left."

"And money," Stenvar continued, "do you have enough? Ya might need to rent a room for a few days, at the very least, and you'll definitely need to find yourself a job there. It's an expensive city."

"Oh, I'll find work, don't worry about that, cousin." She patted Stenvar's hand, gently. "Yes, between us both, we have enough money for a while." Her content smile then morphed into a wide grin. "I'm going to go tell him, now." Olfina stood from the bench, leaned forward to plant a kiss on Stenvar's cheek, and then turned back to the three of us. "It was nice to meet you, Deborah, Marcurio. I'm…," she gave a little laugh, and failed to finish her thought before turning and leaving the inn.

After a moment, Marcurio cleared his throat. "Well, good for her."

"It is. It is good for her," Stenvar nodded, turning his attention to his mug of mead. He then looked across the table at me. "Was that true, what ya told her about the potion?"

The Redguard waitress then walked over with my and Marcurio's meals and left without a word. The soup smelled amazing.

"Yes, it was true," I answered. "If it was not, I would not have had Flavia, I don't think." Marcurio frowned, and with his spoon shoved around the lumps of chicken in the broth. "I'm glad I did, though," I added, honestly. Marcurio commenced eating his lunch, and I turned back to Stenvar. "I had a question for you – about soul gems. I never knew until the other day how expensive they were. I just always… had them. I thought they were found the same as other gems, but I suppose I'm wrong. Where are they from, do you know?"

Stenvar smiled and gulped his mead. He nodded and stifled a burp before speaking. "A place called Blackreach, in the earth."

"In the earth?"

"Mmhmm. Never been there, myself; don't know anyone who has. The gems… well, I suppose they 'grow' there like any other gem, in the ore, in caves and such. Somethin' special about that place, apparently. But soul gems are all over Tamriel, now. Over the years I've found bucketfuls of 'em in Dwemer ruins." Stenvar chuckled, smiling. "Those things made me a rich man," he said as he tipped his mug to me before chugging the last of his drink.

"And… Blackreach… that is the only place on Nirn to… mine soul gems?"

"Yup," Stenvar affirmed, nodding.

"And what happens when they are all gone from these ruins?" I asked him.

Stenvar looked across the table from me, thumb scratching his scruffy chin as he contemplated my question. "Well, I suppose, either the world moves on without fancy magical weapons, or someone will have to go to Blackreach. Though, they say it's a horrible place, that one's gotta have big nuts to even try to get down there."

. . . . . .

It must have been the middle of the night when rustling and a strong odor of horse woke me. While I was still half asleep, I thought I was perhaps back on a horse-drawn cart. And then a warm, damp thing slid up behind me and grasped my uncovered arm. I jumped, and immediately the various candles within the room lit up. A startled Yrsarald gasped and looked around at the candles; it was the first time he had seen such spectacle, no doubt. The magical feat came naturally to me, now, ever since I was attacked in my sleep by Hermaeus Mora. I no longer had to be scared of the dark.

"Sorry," I mumbled, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "That apparently happens when I'm scared, sometimes." I smiled. "You're here…." Yrsarald returned my smile. Still groggy, it took me a moment to realize that he was completely naked, and dripping wet. "Why are you wet and naked?"

"It's raining; my travel clothes got soaked through. They smell like horse, too." Yrsarald climbed into the bed and promptly wrapped his arms around me before giving me a long, deep kiss. "It does me good to see you. I knew you were fine, from Balgruuf's letter, but…."

I smiled and then raised my hand, sending out a wave of absorption energy to douse most of the candles. It was the same spell that sent out the energy needed to ignite them, just in reverse. A single candelabra was all we needed. "Yes, I'm fine." I gave my partner another kiss and then curled up to him, my left arm draping over his torso. "It must be the middle of the night."

"Yes. The rain slowed us down." My bear-man yawned and wrapped his free arm around me, completing the embrace. "We rode hard, two days instead of three. We had to use spare horses."

My fingers twirled the soft fuzz covering his torso. "Where is Galmar? Or Calder? Wuunferth?"

"All of the house-servants will sleep in the barracks during the day, and guard our rooms at night. All of the mages sleep in the temple. Calder is outside our door now. Galmar is somewhere outside of Riften, last I knew. Oh, and I sent Ingjard to the barracks." Yrsarald smiled, amused by having kicked my bodyguard out of the big bed we had been sharing up until then.

"Hmph." Twirl. Twirl. "Did Balgruuf tell you about Nafrik and Fjalar?"

"Yes. He also mentioned some money you or Marcurio were holding for them."

"Yeah. Marcurio has it. And their horses are at the stable." And then I felt it, the anxiety that I had been suppressing for days. I gripped the man's chest hair a bit too tightly and let out the sob that had been threatening to choke me.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

I shook my head. "Nothing, nothing. I'm just… it's…. They  _died_. We tried to save Fjalar, but…. And, then, we had to kill vampires even though they were not threatening us. And Selina, one of the Whiterun guards who came with us, almost died the exact way you were injured during the war, with ice spears. And," I gasped and pushed myself up on my elbow, staring down at Yrsarald.

"What?"

"I met werewolves."

"What!?"

"Yes!" I hissed in a loud whisper. "Two of them. But… they were not born that way. They took blood – I don't know what that means, but they were made werewolves. I asked her… well, I told her I had a  _friend_  who was married to a werebear. She was surprised to hear that werebears existed. I asked her about children…."

"Children…."

I nodded "Children. If a person and a were-animal could make children, and if yes, what they would be like. Selina said when a woman is made into a werewolf, she cannot make children. So, she didn't know. But, she said that children usually look like their mothers, so, perhaps that means if we have children, they won't be werebears."

Yrsarald narrowed his eyes, peering at me from half-closed lids. "Are you with child?"

"What? No, no. No… I don't think so…."

He chuckled. "Alright, I'm only asking. I would smell it anyway, if you were."

I grimaced, still a bit weirded out by Yrsarald's superhuman olfactory senses. "Oh," I lightly tapped his chest, "and Arkay saw my dog."

Yrsarald squinted for some reason. "What?"

"He saw my dog, and my mother. The priest could not have guessed that I had a dog, or about my favorite song."

"Song?..." He sighed, and then urged me to lie back down, and I did. "You will have to tell me everything in the morning. For now, I should sleep."

I nodded. "You should." I pushed myself up a bit to give him a peck on his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, Deb and Yrsarald kill some time in Whiterun.
> 
> Belur - Shrine  
> Noth - Charge/Ward/Duty  
> Stornegrin - Administrative Meeting ("Moot")  
> Lafanda - Vivid/Realistic  
> Heite – Supplicant  
> Kuna - Female  
> Vanvitana – Clueless  
> Flutar - Convey


	16. Weapon Rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild NSFW stuff in the second scene. (Though the "W" part of that warning shouldn't matter, since you wouldn't be reading fiction while at work, would you?) ;)
> 
> A good 'walking around in the courtyard' feels song is "Delicate" by Damien Rice.

_Seven years ago…_

The chicken dinner I made was bland. I was the first to admit that. Greg didn't mind, actually preferring food that way. The rice was fairly 'blah' too. At least the asparagus was tasty. I choked down the chicken with a cheap white wine, all the while wishing I was eating  _anything_  else. For whatever the reason, whenever I cooked protein I never wanted to eat it afterwards. Ever. Just with proteins, though. It was a strange idiosyncrasy that Greg never fully understood. One among many. We both had our fair share.

I couldn't eat any more, even though there was plenty of everything left for seconds, even though I was still hungry. But I didn't want the chicken or rice or asparagus. I didn't even want the wine anymore, which was pretty good for costing only a few dollars.

Boring chicken. Boring rice. Boring. Boring. I had no idea what I wanted, I just knew that it wasn't what was in front of me.

Greg was talking about the Nuggets and their losing streak. I nodded when the pauses in his commentary called for it, occasionally adding in 'yeahs', 'uh huhs', and other such conversational fillers.  _Ice cream. That's what I want right now. Chocolate peanut butter swirl ice cream._  I turned to look longingly at the freezer door, knowing full well that all we had in there as far as desserts went was peach sorbet. I turned back to my plate. The whine I heard in my head was rather pathetic.

"We should get married."

That got my attention. I looked up at my boyfriend; he was still working on his plate of seconds. "What?" I probably misheard him.

"Married – what do you think?" He finished chewing, and swallowed before continuing. "I know you're not finished your degree yet, but," he reached across the table to grasp one of my hands, "we could just do it. Go to City Hall. Go see our parents, after. No need for a big wedding or reception, right?" He smiled, recalling how much I disliked big to-do weddings, and did  _not_  ever want to be the center of attention at one.

I was always curious as to how and why ideas about romance and marriage could change so drastically from childhood to adulthood. I wondered often if my previous dream of a moderately romantic proposal and an outdoor, nature-y wedding was just a girlish fantasy that was ultimately unrealistic, something that just happened in movies. Life was  _not_  "Enchanted", and I was  _not_  a pretty, pretty princess who could sing. Greg was certainly dashing, though, and could in fact sing.

I wasn't at all surprised that there was no black velvet box placed in front of me. He knew how I felt about diamonds, and I knew he felt that the engagement ring was a useless aspect of a capitalist economy. We couldn't afford that kind of bling, anyway, but I always not-so-secretly wished for an engagement ring. Just to… have it. I wasn't sure why. Part of me figured it to be cultural conditioning.

Engagement ring equaled man wants woman equaled woman was desirable equaled woman's existence was validated. I knew it was bullshit. I wanted the ring anyway. Something silver –  _silver,_ not white gold or platinum – with a pearl or even something as mundane as a moonstone. Just… something non-traditional. Not an overdone loop that came together in a blood diamond, not the ring that every other woman in the world had. _That's_  what I wanted, what I had always wanted. But, again, it was a fantasy, one that was frivolous and unattainable. I told myself that whenever I landed a permanent job that I would just buy myself what people called a 'right hand ring' – a woman's gift to herself.

I gently squeezed Greg's hand, and smiled. "Yes, I think we should get married. I've… actually been wondering when you would ask."

My boyfriend – fiancé – leaned forward and kissed me. He then sat back down and chuckled lightly. "You should have just asked _me_."

. . . . . .

_Seven seconds ago…_

Yrsarald was a large man. The combination of his height, thick bone structure, abundant muscles and generous layer of padding made for, indeed, a bear-like man, ready to hibernate for the winter. 'Meaty', I usually called him. And me, despite the recent exertions and exhaustive use of magic, I was still carrying a lot of post-partum weight which added onto my already thick build.

We probably should have foreseen the collapsing legs of the bedframe.

I heard the creaking too late, overwhelmingly distracted by pleasure. The wooden bedframe was apparently older than the one Yrsarald had used for years in Windhelm. By the time I thought to warn my partner to calm his zealous thrusts, it was too late. The posts under the foot of the bed had rocked too far and dropped beneath the frame, sending the two of us, conjoined, cashing atop the mattress to the wooden floor with a very loud thud. The drop wasn't a sizable one, but it was plenty to shock us momentarily.

Yrsarald backed away from me cautiously, bracing me by my hips, apparently worried I would slide off the mattress with him. He then burst out in laughter. "Are you alright?" he asked as I turned around.

"Yes," I answered, laughing in turn. "Come here, we don't need to stop."

"Calder and the guards will want to know what happened," he said through his laughter.

"Then finish what you started, quickly…," I ordered with a wicked grin. Laying on my back at a slight incline proved to be an interesting position indeed. But as Yrsarald predicted, a concerned guard soon pounded at the door. "Don't you dare stop," I commanded, panting.

"Are you alright in there?" a muffled male voice called.

"Shhh," I whispered to Yrsarald, trying my best not to moan above a whisper.

Knock, knock, knock. "Hello!?"

Yrsarald growled. "We're fine!" If nothing else, my partner had to be commended for his steadfast determination while under pressure.

As always, Yrsarald could sense my pending climax and, predicting a series of loud moans on the verge of exploding, he covered my mouth with his. Both of us were out of breath, gasping between kisses. My final orgasm of the morning continued until Yrsarald finally pulled out, not wishing to release inside me as I had not been taking my anti-baby-conception tea, something that wasn't a guarantee anyway.

Yrsarald lay back on the rug by the foot of the broken bed, catching his breath. I slid down the mattress, landing gingerly on his outstretched legs and then shifting alongside him, wrapping a leg around his. I leaned forward and kissed my partner, offering my hand as a means to his own end. His mouth pressed against mine, muffling his breathless grunts. One strong arm wrapped around my back, offering support, and the other swept over my loose, long hair, ending in a gentle grasp on my neck. I cherished the sound of his guttural, muted cries, the feel of his tightened abdominal muscles, and the way his fingers clung to my flesh as he peaked.

I couldn't suppress a giggle as my mind wandered back to the broken bed. Yrsarald lay still on the rug, one hand still clinging to my lower back, the other pressed to his head, fingers knotted in his mussed brown-red locks.

"I hope only Calder heard us," I whispered.

Yrsarald chuckled, and then groaned. "People talk…," was all he managed to say.

My face contorted. "Ehh, you mean…. Oh, no," I laughed, "the Jarls…. Will they?... What will they say?"

"I don't know." Yrsarald slowly sat up and looked for the washbasin, promptly standing to go clean himself off.

"They will know that I am… we are…."

"I'm sure that they already know."

"Will… will they think badly of me? Of you?"

"Hmm?" He turned to me as he washed. The vision of Yrsarald wiping clean his torso, covered by a sparse copper coat, was almost enough to get me going again. I immediately lifted my gaze to his puzzled face. "Why would the Jarls think badly of us? Because we broke a bed?" I shrugged, and my partner chuckled. "You speak as if Jarls never have sex."

"Of course they do, I just… well, you know. Sex is private."

"Of course it is. I still do not see the issue, here."

"Nevermind. I'm just strange, I suppose."

"Yes, but I like you that way."

"Hmph." I stood, taking the crumpled linen bedsheet with me. I wrapped it around my body like a towel, tucking the end between my breasts, and gathered my clothes. "I suppose, then," I said, stepping up to Yrsarald, stopping just short of kissing him, "no one will be upset if we…," I cleared my throat, "bathe together?" I flashed my partner a devious grin.

. . . . . .

The Jarls of Markarth, Riften, and Winterhold still had not arrived, so Yrsarald and I decided to take a stroll around the city. The rain had stopped sometime after breakfast. The city streets were mostly paved, so avoiding mud was not a problem. I swapped my fur boots for leather, though. I loved how things appeared while still wet from rainfall. Greens were greener, the pavestones were a slick grey, wood was a rich brown, and flowers glistened, sparkling in the sunlight. The remnants of a fading rainbow still hung in the air to the north, and birds were singing cheerfully.

The courtyard, central in the city, was round and housed a lumbering dead tree that reminded me a bit of the very old, wide oak. The main entrance to the Temple of Kynareth opened up to the tree. Cottages, the steps to the palace, and a mead hall joined the temple in surrounding the courtyard. The mead hall, I had learned from Marcurio, was where people called The Companions lived and trained. They were warriors with a long, heroic tradition in Skyrim, but they were remaining neutral on the current war. This, I had realized, was what that werewolf Vilkas had meant by being a Companion. I wondered if all Companions were werewolves.

As Yrsarald and I stepped beneath the wooden trellis that formed a circle around the dead tree, I took note of the flowering plants that vined across it, spreading up and down the carved wood columns and across the other horizontal sections. I had seen the courtyard several times already, but had never stopped to smell the roses, so to speak. I was not paying attention to where I was walking, but neither were the three children who darted, giggling, past us, nearly pushing me into the flowers that surrounded the dead tree. Yrsarald caught me, at first noticeably annoyed by the children's carelessness but eventually he joined me in my laughter. A fourth child soon followed, shouting for the others to wait for her. She was wearing a severely tattered dress; I wondered who she was, and who her parents were that she had to dress in rags.

"So," Yrsarald began, "you want  _five_  of those, eh?"

A light snort accompanied my continuing laughter. "Ah, well, perhaps one, to start." I turned to my partner and brushed my hand against his ever-fluffing, red-brown beard before gently pressing my lips to his. "A Jarl needs his heirs. So… maybe two, in the end."

"I'd like two," he said, smiling. "One boy, one girl."

I nodded. "I still wonder what children of ours might be. I am not even from Nirn. But I'm Dragonborn, maybe. I'm not even sure what that truly means…. And you're a  _var_ —" I cut myself off, suddenly hyper-aware that I was in public, and didn't finish the sentence. It wasn't necessary to, anyway. "I will have to pay attention to Flavia, to see if she is… different."

"Oh, I'm certain that the girl will be 'different'. If you were 'remade' as you say in this world, and remade as a mage and Dragonborn, 'Child of Akatosh', then my guess is that Flavia, and indeed any children you bear, will be special. Perhaps being Dragonborn is passed through families. I'm not sure. You will have to ask the Greybeards… when you go…."

I squeezed Yrsarald's hand. "I suppose I will go there, soon. Perhaps after I visit your camps, so I can make Galmar happy."

"Hmph, yes. He would like that. So would the troops."

"I suppose I will have to be fitted for armor when I return to Windhelm."

"I know Oengul is anxious to get you in that pretty armor he has planned."

I groaned. "Pretty!?" Images of purple-steel armor, accented by pastel pink lace and glistening with glitter, flitted through my mind. "I am not a 'pretty' woman."

"Of course you are," Yrsarald countered, grinning.

I rolled my eyes and turned to watch a mooing pair of beefy, long-haired cattle outside a cottage. They had the appearance of Scottish Highland cattle, but bigger, with much longer horns and much longer coats. I then turned back to the dead tree. Surrounding its roots were patches of bright green moss and rich black soil, the occasional shrub or patch of flowers, and a single, square slab of stone large enough for two people to sit on. Set on the stone slab was what appeared to be a small shelf for offerings, but it was bare. Surrounding this was short grass and several benches looking away from the tree out towards the town. The outer ring was a paved path, and the walls of the courtyard were light, sun-bleached wood with simple designs one might find on a gazebo. The entire courtyard was then surrounded by a shallow moat that actually connected waterways throughout the city. Marcurio had mentioned that such waterways actually acted as drainage for rainfall, and also allowed people to obtain fresh water, as the flow never stopped. I could tell from the look of the wood surrounding the courtyard and the walkways crossing over the moat that flooding had occurred at least once.

"When do you think all of this will be over for me?" I asked my partner.

"All of what?"

"Dragonborn. Meridia. All of that."

"Hmm. Only the gods know. Maybe not even them. Why?"

I squeezed his hand, tightly, and then pulled myself within kissable distance from him. I looked up into his eyes. "I want a life with you, Yrsa. I will do what this world wants me to do, because I can. And, I want to. I do. But, someday, I want a normal life without being a very important person, forced to be away from you. I want you to be Jarl, and I want to give you children, and maybe…."

"Hmm?"

I sighed, unsure how to phrase what I wanted to say. "I want to… well, you know what Calixto did, before…. He collected things – artifacts. I think I would like to do that, here, in Skyrim. I can't do what I did in my world; those jobs I think don't exist here, but… I can do almost the same thing. I can collect things from places I have been, and show them to people who might want to know about Skyrim's history. Put artifacts on shelves and tell others about them. Do you have a word for such a place?"

" _Tholetem_ ," he answered.

" _Tholeten_?" I asked. "Just 'artifacts'?"

He smiled. "No, not 'tholeten' – 'tholet _emmm_. 'Mathir' –  _emmm._ "

 _M is for_ Mathir _, or 'man'_ , I said to myself. "Is that a… joined word?"

" _Tholet ath hem_."

"Oh, 'tholet-hem'," I said, finally getting it.

"You want to do that?"

"Yes, if I can. I suppose though, if you are Jarl and I am…. Well, I might have other things to do. But, I am just hoping for my future. I cannot know what will happen." We then stood in silence for a while, gazing at the dead tree. Yrsarald looked sad. "This tree must be old," I said. "everything around it grows and the earth is healthy and black, but the tree is dead."

"Yes, it is old, and dead. This is Kyne's tree, Gildergreen, daughter of the Mother Tree, Eldergleam. Some say Eldergleam was planted on the same day humans were created. The trees connect Nords to their Mother, to the sky. To Kyne." Yrsarald reached out and pressed a palm the dry, flaking bark of the trunk. "As you have noticed, it is dead, now. Struck by lightning two years ago. Some think that Kyne has abandoned us, but I don't think she would."

I looked up. Sure enough, near the top of the trunk was a charred wound. The lightning had traveled all the way through the tree; it never had a chance. I kneeled on a bench, still facing the tree, not minding the water soaking through by robe and leggings. I concentrated my attention on the tree, trying to feel any magical energy, but felt nothing. "Kyne is your Mother Goddess," I said, touching the tree, "and this is her daughter. The tree is your sister. But, you know, lightning happens. This is a tall tree. I think people who think it is a sign of Kyne's anger are being too… oh, what is your word for… seeing too far into a situation?"

"Seeing too far? I don't understand."

"Ehh, seeing signs in everything, like, bad weather, the way birds fly, or having a pair of lucky socks."

"Lucky socks?"

I chuckled. "Yes. What is your word for that? For thinking such things mean a lot, like messages from gods."

" _Metrufula_ ," was Yrsarald's answer.

" _Meh… truer… ful_?"

" _Tru,_ not  _truer_."

" _Med… ful… tru_." With full belief.

"I suppose over time, words like  _metrufula_  and  _tholetem_ became shorter, easier to say."

 _Metrufula,_ superstitious _. Metrufulon,_ superstition. Got it. "Oh, that reminds me. Did you ever see Ulfric's ghost? Or have more dreams?"

"No. I took that potion every morning since you left, and saw nothing. The only dreams I had were normal, odd, nothing-dreams."

"Hm, well, we will talk about Saarthal and all the rest at the mage's meeting, I am sure." I smiled at my partner. "Nothing-dreams?"

"Yes, you know, dreams about shooting arrows made of cheese into pies."

I laughed, gripping the bench for balance. "You  _would_  dream of cheese and pies. I dreamt of  _chocolate_ ," I used the English word I had taught him.

Yrsarald laughed, then. "Yes, you  _would_  dream of  _chocolate_."

My laughter faded as I frowned. "Yrsa, I…." I looked away, focusing on a tree root. "I have been having other dreams. Strange dreams. Very real, but, not possible. Impossible dreams."

"Like my Saarthal dream?"

I nodded.

"Did you dream of Ulfric?"

I shook my head. "Well, no, not… not like you did, anyway. But, yes, I did…."

Yrsarald grasped my hand and led me to the stone slab under the dead tree. He sat down, not minding the dampness, and had me sit on his lap. His arms were around me, holding me tight as the two of us gazed at a barkless patch of wood on which someone had carved the Norren letters for 'B' and 'G'.

"I thought this tree was sacred," I said. "Why would someone write on it?"

"One can only guess." Yrsarald let me fall back a ways so he could whisper in my ear. "Don't change the subject." He kissed my neck and sat me upright again. After a laugh, I began to recount abridged versions of the dreams I'd had – I was married to Ulfric, who was then High King of Skyrim; I was flying on a dragon and fell into Stenvar's arms; I was in the future in my world, married with children. I left out the fact that all three dreams featured Stenvar, or at least someone who looked like him.

"What do you think the dreams are? They cannot be of the future, because… Ulfric…."

"Hmmm…." Yrsarald sat with me in silence, pondering. His thumbs caressed my wrists. "Well, I think dreams are appearing more real, lately. Whether sent by ghosts or gods, I don't know, but they are so real, you can smell the air."

"Yes. Taste, smell, see, hear, touch…. Everything is as if it is happening. In the dream of the future, I was confused and frightened, just as I would be if I was sent there, now. But in the other dreams, it was as if I knew everything was normal."

"Hmph, well, I think I know what the one about Stenvar means."

"You do?"

"Yes. I believe it means the man will be there for you if you fall. Obvious, I suppose, but I don't mean this by the word. He will protect you."

I nodded. "Yes. Yes…. Marcurio said the same, the night before we went into the fortress. I was upset, worried, frightened…. Marc calmed me, reminded me that Ingjard and he were there for me, and Stenvar and Jenassa too, and those guards and Jenassa's friend. They weren't there for  _me_ , but they were there. Ingjard did her job well, but Stenvar definitely had his eyes open for me."

"Good. I'm glad."

"You're not jealous?"

Yrsarald chuckled. "Jealous that another man has the  _furetin_ of protecting you?  _Neh_ …. Well, maybe a little." He squeezed his arms tighter around me and then tickled my side until I writhed in a fit of breathless laughter, leading me to lightly smack his hands until he stopped.

" _You_  are not behaving like a Jarl," I chided, panting

"Oh, and how does a Jarl behave?"

I bit my lip, finding my words. "Sour."

"Sour!?"

"And angry. And serious. And annoyed."

"You are thinking of Ulfric. And perhaps Balgruuf. He's rumored to be quite seroius, but that is coming from Ulfric and a handful of others. Not all Jarls are so  _greta_ , at least not when they are living their lives, relaxing. In fact, I hear that Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath is quite  _lusa_." Yrsarald paused a moment. "You… might want to avoid him."

"Avoid him? What is 'lusa'?"

"He does not care much for… well, behaving like a proper Jarl. Respecting traditions and other  _heilen_."

"'Heilen'?"

"Sacred things."

"Oh. You will have to tell me who he is, whenever the meeting begins. Balgruuf wants me there."

"Yes, you should be there. Meet the Jarls. They should know your face."

"Hmph, my face. It will be good, I think, to show that not all Dragonborns are like Torug. I don't mean that I'm not an Orc, but, well, that I'm not a murderer."

"Indeed."

We listened in silence to the birdsong for a long while, slowly warmed as the clouds parted and the late morning sun shone down. A worrying thought again entered my mind. "What about the war? Stenvar said that for the meetings there will be a weapon-rest."

"Yes. All soldiers in the camps and forts were ordered to not attack anyone, any camp, on the road or otherwise unless it is to defend themselves. In this city, now, anyone who raises a weapon against a Jarl or his court will be killed on sight."

"Oh. Well, good, I suppose. I worried for you. Jarl Elisif – of Solitude? – she may not like you. Or me. Or anyone from Windhelm."

"True, she may not. But as much as she misses Torygg and may not fear death, she will not see him in Sovngarde if she kills another under a weapon-rest. Her, or someone she pays. She will not risk this."

"You are too certain, I fear. I think I will worry for you forever."

"Always worrying too much."

"Yes. It is what I do best. Better than magic."

Yrsarald's laughter jostled me, but he held on tight. When he calmed, he leaned forward and kissed the nape of my neck, which lay exposed now that I wore my hair up in a lazy bun. "You should allow me to worry about you, instead."

"You do worry for me."

"Mm, yes, I do."

"And that is why I have this ring, from you."

Yrsarald's fingers traced the gold band on my left thumb. "Has it helped?"

"I think so, yes."

"Good. It makes me happy to help you."

"Heh, yes, it must. You have been helping me since you have known me."

"I have. And I desire to protect you; always have." His fingers interlaced with mine. "I desire to protect you, even when I am not with you." His hot breath spilled down my neck as his lips caressed flesh. "One way to do that is with blessings from the gods."

"Blessings…. Oh! I didn't tell you. That warm feeling I was getting – it is from Kyne. I'm sure of it, now. I prayed at her shrine and felt the same way. She is the one sending me energy. She… she took Flavia's milk away, but I think she did it on purpose, to get me on my feet, you know? I suppose gods can be impatient."

"Yes, perhaps, but that is not what I meant. Sometimes…," he sighed, fidgeting a bit beneath me, "sometimes, when people do things that please the gods, the gods give those people blessings. Those blessings could be… good crops, healthy cattle, success in battle… ehh… you know, good fortune. I… I know that the gods have already blessed you in many ways. Akatosh… Kyne… Arkay… perhaps even Talos…, but—"

"And Dibella. She protected me, when I was first brought here. She made others want to protect me."

I felt Yrsarald's breath hit my neck as he exhaled sharply through a laugh. "Yes – yes, and Dibella, too. I thank the gods every day for protecting you. I'm… I…," he sighed again, "I just think that it would—"

"Deborah?"

Yrsarald's somewhat disjointed thoughts were cut off by a familiar voice calling my name. I turned to the source of the sound to see a tall figure, hair shining like spun gold, and blonde goatee spread wide in a grin.  _Ralof_. I had almost smiled in response before I saw a lump, slung across his chest, swaddled by fabric, moving. And then a chubby little arm popped out.

"Ralof!" Yrsarald cheered, shifting me up and off of him before springing to his feet a bit too quickly for his left knee's comfort. He grunted, but practically skipped up to his comrade. The men clasped forearms, and for the tiniest of moments, I caught myself wondering what it would be like to be the meat in a Ralof-Yrsarald sandwich.  _Stop it_ , I reprimanded myself.  _You're horrible_. I was probably ovulating or something. 'In heat', I always called it.

Yrsarald congratulated Ralof on the birth of his precious cherub, and for Eyleif of whom I'd told Yrsarald about, previously. The men spoke of Shor's Stone where Ralof had been stationed, and then mourned together the loss of Ulfric. I stood at Yrsarald's side, ever-patient and half-listening, unintentionally drowning out most of the conversation as I lost myself in the gurgling face of mini-Ralof. Sighulf must have been the happiest baby I'd ever seen. I still wanted one. One of Yrsarald's, anyway.  _Later, later_ , I reminded myself. A strong arm then wrapped around my waist, pulling me subtly to the side of Yrsarald. I wondered if the man was displaying claim. I decided to do the same, wrapping my right arm around his waist, topping the display off with a lean of my head onto my partner's warm and cushy shoulder.

Ralof's smile was genuinely ecstatic. "I feel like hugging you both, now," he joked, chuckling. "If it were not for Ulfric's death, I would say life is perfect now." Ralof gave himself a moment to reflect on his bereavement, but was soon smiling again. "Well, let us remain happy, hm? Come to Eyleif's house. We can have lunch together and talk more of happy things."

. . . . . .

It was immediately obvious how furiously in love Ralof and Eyleif were, with each other and with their son. They were not officially married yet, but would be, soon. I wondered if in ten years they would be more like Gerdur and Hod, who undoubtedly loved one another but definitely acted like a married couple.

Throughout the late morning and early afternoon, Yrsarald held my hand on and off many times, perhaps sensing, smelling my odd mix of emotions and thoughts.  _Ralof is and will always be attractive. Eyleif and Ingjard are practically twins and both are fiery-haired Nord goddesses. Mini-Ralof is the cutest baby ever, maybe even trumping Flavia – time will tell on that one. I want a baby. I want a baby. I want Yrsarald's baby._

Soon, talk turned to focus on Ingjard, asking how she was enjoying her new, apparently esteemed position, and whether or not she had met any special someones lately. Strong wine, though sipped slowly, was beginning to lighten my head, and I succumbed to a giggle-fit when I thought of Ingjard and Jenassa getting busy on the road to Whiterun. Odd, curious looks were directed at me, but I waved them off, attempting to calm myself.

"No," Ingjard answered as my giggles became muffled hums. "No one special. I did meet a lovely  _vand_  not long ago, but nothing came of it." She shrugged, smiling. "I am too busy now, anyway."

"You are," Ralof said. "It is a great honor, what you are doing. I am glad Deborah has such a capable soldier at her back, as is Yrsarald, I'm sure."

"It is a great comfort, indeed," my partner confirmed. "I can't guess how long Deborah will be up at High Hrothgar, but I am calmed by the thought that she will not be without good company, and protection."

. . . . . .

The following day, my birthday, was spent in the company of Yrsarald, Marcurio, Stenvar, Jenassa, and Ingjard in and around Eyleif's house, which meant Ralof, Gerdur and Hod were also there – their son had elected to spend the day with friends. Jenassa's birthday was in only one week, Stenvar's a bit over one month, and Marcurio's a bit over two. We celebrated all of our birthdays together, since I had no way of knowing how long I would be up at High Hrothgar. The weather was beautiful, so to compensate for the large crowd, much of the festivities were held outdoors where Hod and Ralof had placed Eyleif's relatively long dining table as well as benches and chairs.

The gifts given and received were that of food and alcohol, en masse. I elected to stay sober long enough to teach Eyleif, who was very much comfortable in the kitchen, how to make a pizza and to bake a cake. Even though her oven was not as efficient as the one I had used in Windhelm's palace, it did the job, and out came several great-looking flatbread pizzas and a halfway decent cake that we topped with lavender butter frosting. Yrsarald was excited to taste more of my cooking; I was just happy that no one spit it out or fell ill.

Yrsarald said that the Jarls of Winterhold and Riften would not likely arrive for another four days or so, and therefore there was no need to be worried about drinking too much that evening. Between mugfuls and jugfuls, everyone was delightfully sloshed by the time the late afternoon sun turned Yrsarald's, Eyleif's, and Ingjard's hair into manes of fire. I was always jealous that reddish hair could do that in such light. Fiery Eyleif was the only one of us who had remained sober, as she was still breastfeeding; she essentially took care of the rest of us messes. Hod, Ralof, Yrsarald and Jenassa were all far less drunk than myself, Marcurio, Ingjard, Gerdur and Stenvar; I figured this had to do the men's large sizes, and Jenassa's elven blood. I recalled that it indeed took a lot of alcohol for Brelyna to get completely drunk. I and Marcurio, on the other hand, were extreme lightweights. We were also both prone to drunken giggle fits.

The day passed quickly as stories and jokes were shared amongst the group, mostly from Stenvar and Jenassa who had by far done the most traveling of us all and had a lot of stories and jokes to tell. I was pleased when I realized that everyone around the table – all Nords except for me and Marcurio – treated Jenassa just like anyone else, not caring that she was not human. It took me until that drunken moment to realize just how thoroughly I was surrounded by humans in general. Sure, I counted Brelyna as a close friend, and Elodie was half elf, but nearly everyone in my life in this world was a light-skinned human, if not a Nord. I suddenly felt utterly guilty for no other reason than being a little bit accidentally racist.

Marcurio, sitting across from me at the table, caught me frowning. He slid his hand forward and his fingers fumbled their way between mine into an interlocking grasp. "Heyyy, Deb. Wassa matter?"

I looked up to my friend, and then made eye contact with Yrsarald, standing a bit behind Marcurio; he had removed himself from the table to 'talk shop' with Ralof. Marcurio squeezed my hand. "Nothing, nothing," I answered, forcing a smile.

"Bull n' horses shits," my mage friend exclaimed. "Is it 'cause you don' have it yet?"

" _Huh_? Don't h've whut?" I rubbed my forehead, feeling a headache coming on, and decided to give myself a small dose of healing magic to cut off the hangover at the pass.

Marcurio looked down at my hand and then flashed a sheepish smile. "I have nnno idea. I am  _very_  drunk."

I laughed and pulled my hand away from him, using both to grasp my meat-and-melty-cheese sandwich as I chowed down.

. . . . . .

Back in our palace guestroom, Yrsarald and I practically ripped each other's clothing off. His lips were glued to mine except for brief moments of gasping for air. The broken bedframe had been removed and the mattress placed on the floor, probably for the duration of our stay at the palace. Finally mostly naked, we stumbled and fell onto the mattress which, like most upper-class mattresses in Skyrim, comprised alternating layers of cloth, cotton, and feathers; more simple mattresses were filled with cloth and straw.

While Yrsarald's mouth latched onto my neck, his hands found my breasts, massaging until hardened nipples brushed against his palms. His mouth lowered and found a nipple, then the other, licking and sucking while his hands smoothed over my shoulders, down my back, and up my torso to again cup my breasts.

We lost ourselves in our play, fingers and hand and tongues becoming autonomous and exploring where they will. After a while of digital manipulation, I realized that Yrsarald was not maintaining an erection. I was sober enough to know that this was likely due to excessive drinking and stress, and perhaps his age. Determined, I wrapped my fingers around his vaguely stiffened shaft and released a small amount of healing energy. The man groaned with relief, but I felt no difference in tumescence.

"I don't think it'll 'appen tonight, 'oneybbbee," Yrsarald whispered before again kissing my neck.

I giggled at the tickling sensation and returned the gesture, letting my teeth sink into his freckled shoulder ever-so-gently. "S'arite," I mumbled. "We c'n jus' kiss. N' touch. N' kiss more." Yrsarald lifted himself up a bit to gaze down at me, smiling. "Kiss 'til we sleep."

 _I haven't kissed this much since I was a teenager_ , I mused before passing out.

. . . . . .

Finally, the Jarls and the courts of Riften and Winterhold had arrived, as well as representatives from the Mages College. Savos Aren, accompanied by Elodie, as well as Brelyna just tagging along, had arrived at midday on the second day of Second Seed, Skyrim's equivalent of May. Marcurio, Brelyna, Elodie and I, still waiting for the Jarl of Markarth to arrive, took to strolling around the city and also checked in on the wounded and sick at the Temple of Kynareth. The four of us later found a grassy knoll to relax on and enjoy the non-wintery weather, talking about everything from zombies to my and Yrsarald's newfound status. Elodie was still a bit evasive, not really giving any solid answers to what she had been doing for the last year.

When evening fell and our stomachs growled for dinner, we moved our gathering to a tavern called the Drunken Huntsman, where I knew Jenassa and Stenvar to be staying. Sure enough, my sellsword friends were inside, chatting with a greenish-tan-skinned elf man with long red hair, and another, similar-looking elf man with his red-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. The latter man I had seen before – he was a city-sanctioned hunter, and sold his meat and furs in the market square. Though the two elves were both  _Bosmer_ , or Wood Elves, and looked alike enough to be related, the hunter was decidedly far more handsome. The innkeeper, with his highly-slanted golden eyes, to me resembled an alien; I felt similarly about Faendal and Brelyna, and felt really awkward about it.

While my friends and I drank and talked and ate our fill of dinner, part of which was orgasmic steamed crab legs dipped in garlic butter, Stenvar and Jenassa finished speaking with the short elves and then made their way over to us. I introduced everyone as Stenvar pulled up a chair next to me. Jenassa had paused, holding her chair, seemingly wondering where to sit and looking a bit overwhelmed.

"C'mon, Jen," Stenvar called, patting the table space between him and Brelyna. Stenvar's companion eventually sat herself down, but never appeared to be particularly relaxed.

Not long after dinner was finished, Elodie excused herself, desiring to head back to the temple to rest. Brelyna too was getting tired, and asked about getting a room at the tavern.

"The Huntsman is not truly an inn," Jenassa told Brelyna, frowning slightly. "It is more a  _sofsnol_  for workers, and…." Her frown turned up into a small smile. "We have permanent rooms, here. But I would be happy to walk you to the inn. They will certainly have a room for you."

"Thank you very much," Brelyna answered, smiling as she stood. "I will see you all tomorrow," she said to us. "Don't get too drunk."

Stenvar laughed before raising his mug to the two elves, chugging his mead after. He voiced his sated thirst with a loud sigh, and then muttered, "I don't think we'll be seein' Jenassa again tonight."

"Why not?" Marcurio asked.

The old sellsword grinned, and licked a drop of mead from his lips before wiping his mouth on his forearm. "I've known Jen long enough to notice when her world collapses into itself n' shuts out everyone else. Everyone else but her, and her target."

I was perplexed. "Target?"

Stenvar nodded, unable to stop grinning, saying nothing more on the subject. It was obvious, however, that the 'target' he named was Brelyna. Jenassa was coveting Brelyna.

. . . . . .

Much later in the evening, drunk and needing to pee like a pregnant racehorse, I stumbled back to the palace, half of the time supported by a grumbling much more sober Stenvar. When he had insisted on escorting me I became fairly annoyed, but the man was relentless, muttering something about Yrsarald killing him and everyone else if anything happened to me. I tried to shoo him away when we reached the palace doors, but he stuck with me until we reached the guest hall. Healing magic, in all its amazing, wondrous capabilities, could not erase drunkenness, but merely help the body recover from the delayed effects of alcohol consumption.

"Alright sweetheart, which one's yours?"

"Um…." I stared googly-eyed from the top of the staircase, noting a planter here, a short bookcase there. "Tha' one," I said, pointing at a door between a pot of flowers and a small table with the stone bust of some guy. "I think." Thankfully for everyone in the hall, that very door opened and out stepped a tired and worried-looking and half-naked Yrsarald. "Oh,  _thank jeebus_." I turned around. "Thanks, Stenvvv'r," I said, backing away. "I'm'a go pee now."

"Thank you, Stenvar." Yrsarald gently claimed me by the waist, but I pushed him away, too.

"Gotta pee, gotta pee," I rambled, trotting into our guestroom.

Yrsarald followed quickly, shutting the door behind me before I disrobed, something I had forgotten to do. "I think you're even more drunk than last night," Yrsarald commented, helping me out of my clothes.

"Mayyybe," was all I said as I shimmied out of my underwear, simultaneously trying to remember where the piss bucket was. Thankfully, Yrsarald remembered his promise to me from months ago to never watch or actively listen to me use a bucket or latrine, and stopped talking to me until I was finished. Of course I knew he could hear the activity, but I didn't even like it when people in my world talked to me from adjacent public toilet stalls. It was just weird. All clean and weighing considerably less, I climbed onto our mattress and into Yrsarald's arms, pecking him on the cheek. "What did you do t'day? Meet yer Jarl friendz?"

He nodded. "I did. I did not know them previously; it is good to know them now." The man was frowning, staring at his feet.

"Whas wrong?" I asked, fondling his beard. "Yer not mad 'cause of Stenvurrr, are you?"

Yrsarald grasped my hand and finally turned to look at me. "No, I'm not mad about Stenvar, Deborah. I'm…. The Jarl of Markarth, Igmund, won't be coming. He, his family, his court… they were all killed."

Stunned, I sat up too fast, causing my head to swoon. "Wh-what? What… who? How?"

The man frowned and looked as if he was on the verge of tears. "Markarth was taken by the  _Fireithuren_. Again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to say that I will be going on a short hiatus as of now. I have grad school and work to focus on for the spring, but that doesn't mean I won't be writing. I have some major, major plot points to figure out for the next few chapters, something I need to be flawless before I post them. They are very unconventional (as far as I know), and not only do I need to make sure the chapter content fits in with Lore, I need to make sure it makes sense. This part of this book's outline was fuzzy to begin with because I hadn't decided on a few things. Now, I think I've got it all figured out, but I need to do some research to make it happen. I thank Dan3634, indismero, and KiraMackey for their input and help in just hearing me out with these things.
> 
> This hiatus probably just means that instead of once a week, chapters may be posted every other week, or something like that. I'm also suffering from slight burnout, so that's another reason I'm a bit behind. A common problem we authors sometimes have is thinking too far ahead, and getting too excited about X plot point that will happen in the next book, or how everything ends. I am super guilty of this to the point where I have already written the last chapter of this book as well as another important chapter, because those scenes wouldn't leave my head until I wrote them down. Such is life, I suppose.
> 
> I hope you all have a nice spring break, or just a nice spring in general. Hopefully some of you who are behind in your reading/writing can get caught up!
> 
> Thank you Imogen for your kind words. I'm glad you're enjoying the story!
> 
> Ishkahrhil, as far as I can see, from the lore and going in-game, Blackreach is the only place one can mine soul gems from the earth. I haven't played much of Oblivion in ages, so I could be wrong, but I can't find any information that says otherwise. That said, Stenvar is not omniscient either, and he could always be wrong. Soul gems can today be found anywhere in Tamriel, but they are found already mined.
> 
> Up next, the Jarls discuss Markarth.
> 
> Tholetem - Museum  
> Ath - And  
> Furetin - Privilege  
> Neh - Nah  
> Med - With  
> Ful - Full  
> Tru - Belief  
> Truer - Believe  
> Metrufula – Superstitious  
> Metrufulon - Superstition  
> Greta - Grumpy  
> Lusa - Carefree  
> Heilen - Sacred Things  
> Sofsnol - Lodge  
> Fireithuren - Forsworn


	17. The Reach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't done so already, I recommend that you read my (very) short story "Dragonbane" about Torug the Orc Dragonborn that ties into the Hero Series and gives background to the contents of this chapter. That is, if you want to be hyper-informed. It isn't necessary to read it to understand and enjoy this chapter.
> 
> Please note that my hiatus is still on, and that I don't know when Chapter 18 will be ready to post. Thank you to everyone for your patience, kind words, and support.

 

_Two swirls of light were intersected, connected, joined at one end, looping out from one another in a double spiral. A flash in the center hurt my eyes. The spiral began to shift, swirls growing in length, becoming brighter. Small bursts of light spat out of the spiral. Some flew in. The spiral then calmed, and stopped spinning, stopped growing. The lights dimmed slightly._

_A tiny spark in one of the swirls caught my attention. Another. Three more._

" _Open Eye, pointed Finger," a deep, gravelly male voice spoke inside my mind. "Secrets shrouded by blood." The voice reminded me of a lion. I felt a chill._

_The spiral began to shift again, but something about the movement was different. The swirls weren't growing, but shifting outward. The center of the double spiral grew dark. The joined ends had separated. The two swirls continued on their opposing paths._

" _Unmade," the voice uttered. "Light fades into the Darkness: the unwitting will of the few."_

_The swirls coiled into themselves, separated from one another, until they were no longer single spirals but rather bright white spheres._

"Bromjunaar _," the voice whispered, and the lights were gone._

_Black. Quiet. Nothing._

. . . . . .

I awoke to the sound of metal clinking loudly against ceramic. The sharp din pierced straight through to my brain, but soon stopped. My eyes opened to a tall, wooden ceiling. It was spinning, slightly.

A man grunted. Liquid was slurped. Without looking I knew Yrsarald had made his morning tea, the one that calmed him. His brew didn't smell of anything, but tasted of rotting wood. He added blue mountain flower blossoms to help with taste. I groaned as I turned to my partner, which was unfortunately toward the well-lit windows. It was morning, if not late morning, and the guest room didn't boast black-out curtains.

Yrsarald's right hand shook somewhat as he raised the ceramic mug to his mouth, again slurping. His left hand swept down his damp hair and then scrunched a clump of tresses. He must have bathed. His gold hair beads were not in place, and to my disappointment, his cute, tiny beard braids had been cut off. I then realized he trimmed his hair and beard. A lot.

"You cut your hair," I declared, barely over a whisper.

Yrsarald was sipping – no, slurping again as he turned to me, uncharacteristically unsmiling. He lowered his mug. "I couldn't sleep."

I frowned, knowing full well what poor decisions – among other things – insomnia could lead to. "Not at all?" He shook his head, and again raised his mug. I sat up, again groaning, and almost as if by instinct released healing energy unto myself, killing my hangover with magic. I sighed with relief. While stretching, and after yawning, I mentioned, "I had a dream."

"Hm?" he asked, barely interested, or perhaps distracted by tiredness and recent events.

I clutched the linen sheet around my naked bosom. "I was… in… I don't know. I was in the sky, the far sky. I don't know what you call it. I think I watched… I think I watched a world die."

"Huh?"

"It looked like… a big gathering of stars, but it all fell apart, and disappeared. And there was a voice."

"Voice…."

I nodded. "It said… 'open eye, pointed finger'. I remember that, at least. Then something about secrets and blood, darkness, and will."

Yrsarald again slurped his tea, considering my dream. "Are your memories of dreams always incomplete?"

"Yes, usually they are. I only remember the worst dreams, the terrifying ones, or the… eh, well, the ones I've had recently. Those I remember well. Not this one, though. Maybe from the wine. The last thing the voice said… it was not my language. Not even yours. It started with a 'B'. But I don't remember…."

He thought again for a moment. "Balgruuf?" he asked.

"No."

He thought again. "Do you think this dream was important?" Slurp.

"Eh, probably. I watched a world  _die_."

"How do you know that is what you saw?"

"I… can't explain. I know what I saw to be what worlds are made of. It's… knowledge from my world." Yrsarald nodded, satisfied by my answer. He understood that I and people from my world understood things that he and people in this world could not. Learning about such things was often too much for his brain to handle, and more often than not he just took my word for it.

I half-crawled off the mattress, deciding not to care about my nudity. Yrsarald was seated in a chair next to the small desk. I walked around the back of him and wrapped my arms around his chest, pressing myself against his shoulders. After giving him a quick hug from behind, I asked, "Is it Markarth you worry about?"

"Yes. For many reasons, but reports say that the Silver-Bloods," he paused briefly to turn a bit back to me, "an important family in Markarth, supporters of the Stormcloaks," he turned forward, "were taken prisoner. More than likely, they are dead now."

Yrsarald had related to me what he knew when I arrived back at the palace. But because of my drunken state, I remembered very little. I knew that the current Jarl of Markarth and his entire family and court had been killed. I knew that the city had been lost completely to the Reachmen. But that was all. I stroked Yrsarald's somewhat shortened mane. "Remind me – what happened? I don't remember much from last night. I should have healed myself before this morning…."

Apparently, last night while I was out getting sloshed, a runner came in from the west, on horseback until he reached the stables, his own feet sending him the rest of the way to the palace. What Yrsarald called  _Fireithuren,_ along with Orcs, had taken Markarth, killing many Nords within. I had heard that the city was supposed to be impregnable, but Ulfric had been able to take it with his then small army, simply because he could shout the dragon words. According to the runner, who had come in from a town between Whiterun and Markarth called Rorikstead, an Orc was witnessed using the dragon words. Naturally, most people by now knew exactly what that meant, as rumors of Torug had spread country-wide.

The part that I actually found clever was that these  _Fireithuren_ had men and women on the inside of the city. Torug, unlike Ulfric, didn't have to blow the gates down. Allies of the  _Fireithuren,_ citizens of the city, killed guards near-simultaneously, somehow signaled of the arrival of Torug and an army of  _Fireithuren_. It was all very well planned. If I understood Yrsarald correctly, the  _Fireithuren_  were the same as the Reachmen. The same people who had somehow taken Markarth a few decades ago had done the exact same thing, this time with the help of a Dragonborn Orc.

Yrsarald explained to me that  _Fireithur_  meant 'forced to give up promises', which I eventually figured out to mean Forsworn. I couldn't help but have the opinion that the Nords of Skyrim should just give up, stop worrying about Markarth and the land around it. Obviously, these Forsworn wanted that land badly enough to take it back from the Nords twice. But I said nothing on that matter, even when Yrsarald told me he had secretly sent Calder (who I hadn't noticed was missing) to the Stormcloak camp near Whiterun with the message to move troops to The Reach, and to send word to several smaller troops to do the same.

"Does that not break the law of the weapon-rest?" I asked Yrsarald.

"I am not planning to attack another Jarl. And as long as we don't attack Imperial soldiers, we are not breaking the laws of the weapon-rest." Yrsarald began to fidget with his hair, and I stroked it again, combing his tresses with my fingers.

"Will the other Jarls do the same? Send troops there?"

"Just Elisif. I'm certain she sent word to  _Lifthkine_  Tullius, the commander of the Imperial army, though I'm wondering if he's here, now, since there will be talk of a longer truce, perhaps tomorrow. Their troops are closer to Markarth, though. I don't know if we will get there soon enough. Perhaps our troops near Whiterun will."

I began to give the tense man a neck and shoulder massage. "Will there be a battle for Markarth? Between the Stormcloaks and Imperials?"

Yrsarald nodded. "Perhaps."

"Do you not think it better to maybe join armies to take back the city?"

"Of course that would be better, but it won't happen." Yrsarald became increasingly flustered despite the massage I was giving him. His hands were shaking. He leaned forward in the chair and rested his elbows on the small desk, forehead planted on his palms. I continued to rub his neck, back and shoulders over his tunic.

"You are not usually so upset," I noted, softly. "Sad, angry, and injured… sometimes because of me…," I sighed, remembering how upset the man had been when I ran out on him after watching him shift for the first time, "but not like this. You're…," I searched my memory for the correct word, " _skelfa_." Trembling. "The only other time I remember seeing you like this was the day I returned to Windhelm, trying hard to set a string onto a bow, and then getting angry at the poor weapon when you failed."

"Hmph. Yes. That was not a good day for me."

"Does losing Markarth truly make you so upset?" He nodded, and that was my only answer. I hugged him from behind in silence for a while. I breathed in his natural scent, now mixed with the soap he had used on his hair and body and the woodsy fragrant oil he had apparently anointed his underarms with, a habit he had picked up from me.

And then realization hit me, and I stood up so fast that my left breast bumped against Yrsarald's head. My hands covered my mouth as I gasped. "Oh, no…."

"What?" Yrsarald asked, turning back to me.

I caught him appreciating being at eye level with my bare chest. I turned, sighing, and wrapped the light linen bedsheet around myself. "Markarth," I said as I tucked the fabric between my breasts, "is where Dibella's temple is."

"Yes, among a few other things."

"Well, at least it is already Second Seed."

"Yes, what of it?"

I began to pace back and forth in front of Yrsarald, slowly, all the while biting my thumb, a habit I had picked up from Brelyna. I liked feeling the pointy end of a canine tooth press down onto the thumbpad; I didn't really equate the action with childlike thumb-sucking.

"Deborah…."

"Dibella, Yrsa," I said, turning to him. "What happened to all the priestesses there?"

He stared blankly at me a moment. "I don't know. I  _do_  know that the Forsworn worship Dibella, though. Ehh, in a way…."

"In a way?"

He frowned, appearing ill at ease. "Sit down." The dire look on my partner's face told me that sitting might have been a good idea indeed. I planted myself back down on the mattress, which was still just on the floor. Yrsarald kicked off his nice shoes and joined me. "Now, some of what I am about to tell you is rumor, but some is known to be true. It might…," he sighed, "disturb you."

"Oh." I bit my lip. "Alright. It's fine; tell me." I had already witnessed murders and zombies and torture and necromancy and a man's head being smashed open and a man shifting into a werebear. I was pretty sure not much else would shock me.

Yrsarald grasped my hand before continuing, and when he did, he was careful in which words he chose to use. "Not long ago, a year or so, I learned that a young girl was taken from a village outside of Markarth. A Nord girl. Such stories are usually rare. Children don't just… disappear. I suppose you can imagine how upset people were when they learned of it. Anyway… eventually, the girl was found in an old fortress in The Reach, being held prisoner. In the dungeon room was apparently a big statue of Dibella, covered in blood."

"Blood!?"

He nodded. "Blood smeared all over the gold, bones and… well, the rumors were of parts of bodies, both human and goat, but, I don't know, at least bones placed at Dibella's feet. The fortress had been full of Forsworn, and in the dungeon was a  _Thyrnrunn_ -Heart. They are… like mages, shamans, but undead. Instead of a heart, they have a  _thyrnrunn_  blossom. I barely understand it, but…." He waved off that aspect of his tale. "When the girl was returned to her family by the group of people who rescued her, it was learned…." He squeezed my hand, tight. "She had been raped, and bled."

I squeezed back. "What?"

Yrsarald grimaced, but continued. "You know about Dibella, yes?" I nodded. "Well, the Forsworn, they… they don't see her as most in Tamriel do. Not as far as I know. They actually see her much like Sanguine. I don't know why, or how they can…. But, to them, pleasure and pain are… the same. The girl was of course a virgin. I think she was only nine or ten years old, something like that. Not long after, another girl was taken, in the south, I forget from which town, but she was never found. Five girls that I know of have been taken. Only that one saw her family again."

I was right, unfortunately. I wasn't shocked. Too many "Law & Order: SVU" episodes under my belt. I was still disgusted, however. "So, those women at the temple…."

"Lucky if they were killed immediately."

How quickly a mind could change. I had been somewhat ambivalent toward the loss of Markarth, that a people who believed the land was theirs had taken the city. I had been leaning toward supporting the Forsworn, the Reachmen. Not anymore.

I stood from the mattress, turned to Yrsarald, and took a deep breath. "You… the Imperials… someone needs to take back Markarth. And I… I need to tell Stenvar." I made for the washbasin, electing to forego a full bath.

"Stenvar?"

"He is… something like a priest of Dibella. He worships her. If he does not know about Markarth yet—"

"I'm sure the entire city knows, now. Stenvar worships Dibella?"

"I want to tell him. Tell him not to go there himself. I think he would want to, but that would be stupid."

"You need to get ready for the meeting, Deborah."

Naked and half-wet from the washcloth, I halted. "Meeting?"

"A meeting is to be held at midday today to discuss Markarth. It is meant for just the Jarls to meet, but I think you should be there. Balgruuf agrees."

I hung the washcloth back on the side of the washbasin. I probably should have felt happy or even honored about being included in a meeting of the Jarls, but all I could say in response was a nervous, "Oh."

"If you need to speak to Stenvar, I will send a guard to summon him."

I nodded. "Alright."

. . . . . .

Midday arrived, and though Yrsarald had prepped me, I was still very nervous to be sat down in front of all the Jarls of Skyrim. Well, except for the Jarl of Markarth. I had been waiting for Stenvar to come to the palace, but he never did.

Yrsarald was still rather flustered himself, but he drank a second cup of his relaxing tea before the meeting began and assured me that it should help with his nerves. He had changed into much nicer clothes than I had ever seen him in. His outfit was very similar to what Ulfric had usually worn, except made from leather and cloth rather than steel, leather, and fur. I was wearing my recently cleaned mage's robe. I felt a bit out of place amongst well-dressed Jarls, but no one seemed to care.

To my relief, no one said anything about the bed Yrsarald and I had broken, nor did anyone outwardly make any derogatory comments to Yrsarald or anyone else for being a Stormcloak or a Stormcloak supporter.

Because Balgruuf initiated the meeting of Jarls, and because there was no officially recognized High King or Queen, the Jarl of Whiterun was to be the moderator of the Jarls' meetings. Balgruuf waited for everyone to be situated at the long banquet table in the main hall – me at the rear, farthest from the throne, Yrsarald to my right, Siddgeir across from me, and the rest of the Jarls leading up to Balgruuf at the head. When we were settled, brief welcomes and initiatory statements were made. "I thank you all for finally agreeing to meet under a weapon-rest," Jarl Balgruuf added at the end of his introductions of everyone in attendance, including me. He recapped what they had learned about Markarth, which unfortunately was not very much information.

Most in attendance were picking at their lunches, ingesting wine or mead in far greater quantities than food. Contrastingly, Yrsarald and I were stress eating. Well, Yrsarald was stress eating; I was stress eating  _and_  chugging wine.

My partner had kindly written down for me the names of all the Jarls earlier, and as I sat in silence listening to others speak, I recited to myself their names and cities or towns. Siddgeir of the plucked eyebrows, Jarl of Falkreath, a town in south-central Skyrim, near the border, was a bit of a douche, shooting me lasting glances every so often that made me rather uncomfortable. Laila Law-Giver of Riften, a major city far south-east, wore a silver diadem with a blue topaz-like large gem flanked by two smaller, dark ones. She seemed nice, aside from her stolen glances at my partner. Skald of Dawnstar, whose name actually meant something like 'bard', was old, bald, and cranky, but a firm ally to Windhelm. Skald, like Balgruuf and Siddgeir, liked to show off his arms in a sleeveless tunic. I began to wonder if this was a current fashion trend among some men. His silver diadem shimmered with a soft sky-blue stone I couldn't name. Elisif of Solitude, a very pretty woman of about my age, wore a copper and ruby diadem and a matching gown. I was told that she considered herself to be the High Queen of Skyrim, and she sure dressed the part. Her diadem matched that of Korir of Winterhold. Korir was a handsome man. I had seen him a couple times during my time up north, but he was dressed far fancier than ever before. His attire was very similar to what Ulfric used to wear, an outfit more appropriate for frozen climates than a fancy vest. Lastly was an old, raven-haired woman named Idgrod Ravakerl. She, like Yrsarald, wore no diadem. She was also the only female Jarl not wearing a dress, but rather a tunic of fancily-cut leather and fur, and hide trousers. Even though Yrsarald had mentioned that she was no ally, I had to respect her for her fashion choice.

Laila, Skald, and Korir were the only allied Jarls with Windhelm, and indeed the Stormcloaks. Skald was an old war buddy of Ulfric's and Galmar's. Korir was in a trade agreement with Windhelm. Laila simply supported Ulfric's cause. The other Jarls, Siddgeir, Idgrod, Elisif, and the missing Igmund of Markarth were all said to support the Empire for one reason or another. Balgruuf supported neither side or both sides, or unofficially the Empire, whichever way one wanted to interpret his actions or non-actions. His city was boasted as neutral ground, as made evident by its temple filled with soldiers from both armies in need of healing, and a huge statue of Talos in its courtyard. Yrsarald didn't know why the statue was allowed to remain in the city, nor why the Thalmor hadn't yet destroyed it.

"So, a double- _stornegrin_ is needed, then," Idgrod crooned.

"What do you mean  _double_!?" Yrsarald barked with a mouth partially full of some sort of cheese-laden bread loaf.

"You know very well what I mean, Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced," Idgrod replied. "You are not Ulfric Stormcloak's blood-kin, and therefore not truly Jarl of Windhelm. At least not until this  _Stornegrin_  agrees that you are. Even if you were his kin," she laughed while speaking, "I doubt this  _Stornegrin_  would let you keep the throne."

"Should we not wait for a representative from the Elder Council to arrive?" Elisif asked. "Neither Windhelm nor Markarth have true heirs to choose from."

"Ulfric  _made_  me his heir," my partner replied. He clenched his fists, and I resisted the urge to rub his back to calm him down. I wasn't sure such an expression of intimacy was looked kindly upon at such a meeting, since no one else at the table was sitting next to their significant other. I opted for a discreet pat of the thigh. "We may not share blood," Yrsarald continued, "but Ulfric and I were brothers nonetheless."

"It will be taken into consideration that Ulfric wanted you to take his place," Balgruuf said, "but know that there are others in Windhelm and elsewhere who have put in their names well before Ulfric's death."

"What do you mean, 'put in their names'?" Yrsarald asked, noticeably affronted.

"Everyone knew that Ulfric had no children," Balgruuf replied. "No brothers, sisters… not even cousins that lived past the wars. His bloodline is gone. People readied themselves for a day like this. Idgrod is right; two s _tornegrinen_  will need to be held – one for Markarth, and one for Windhelm. But there is no need for a representative from the Elder Council, as we are all… well, all alive are here." Balgruuf paused a moment, allowing himself to mourn, briefly. "However,  _Lifthkine_ Tullius will be arriving soon, and so we will at least have a representative of the Empire here." At the mention of this Tullius person, who earlier Yrsarald had told me was the leader of the Imperial army, my partner stiffened, obviously unnerved by the idea of facing the main enemy of the Stormcloak army. "This is necessary," Balgruuf continued, "as there is also the matter of zombies,  _vampires_ ," the Jarl stressed the word, as if he still didn't believe it _,_  "necromancers, and dragons. We should have met months ago, if not immediately after Helgen burned, but the war prevented it. Not all of you would agree to meet. Now, it seems, we have waited too long, and our infighting and delay may have allowed not only for Riverwood, Shor's Stone, Windhelm, several farms and cottages to be attacked, but also a second taking of Markarth."

"Do not blame the war for Markarth," Idgrod chided. "It was not Nord nor Imperial who took the city, but Orc and Forsworn."

"It was Torug," I blurted quietly, accidentally thinking aloud. Everyone turned to me, and Yrsarald appeared a bit hesitant, but I continued. "At least, I think I may understand what happened. Yrsarald," I turned to my partner, "please correct me if I am wrong, but…. Ulfric, he took Markarth many years ago for the Empire. He used his dragon voice and sent away the Forsworn." I left out the part where the Empire betrayed him and had him arrested and tortured by the Thalmor a second time. "Torug is the name of the Orc Dragonborn who killed Ulfric. The day Ulfric died, Torug showed no hate for Ulfric until he learned his name, combined his name to his face. It was obvious to us watching that Torug hated something about Ulfric – what he did in the past, or was doing recently. Why else did he become so hate-filled so suddenly? Now, Orcs and Reachmen have taken Markarth. Is it not possible that Torug was angry with Ulfric for taking Markarth from the Reachmen so many years ago? Maybe, they thought, since Ulfric was dead, it would be a good time to take back their land."

Everyone was silent for a moment, staring, most sitting in ponderous positions.

"Did you just say, 'take back  _their_  land'?" Elisif asked me.

"I did. The Reachmen consider The Reach to be their land, yes? From many, many years before? I may be wrong about some of the history, but I do know that the Reachmen, the Forsworn think that land is theirs."

More silence. Yrsarald placed his hand over mine, hidden under the table, perhaps a silent plea for me to stop talking, perhaps a thank you, perhaps as encouragement. I couldn't know.

"Orcs are all over The Reach," Siddgeir remarked. "I had heard rumors of their  _lithmir_  with the Forsworn, but I wasn't sure."

"There are Orcs in the east, too," Laila added. "They like the mountains, and easy access to other lands."

"I remind this council that there is no use in holding a  _stornegrin_  for Markarth if there is no Markarth in which to place a Jarl." Skald's comment was stern yet pertinent, garnering nods from the group.

"This is true," Balgruuf replied. "So, what do we do?"

"What  _can_  we do?" asked Korir. "Do we know how many Orcs are involved? Are they still in the city? How many Forsworn are there?"

"What about worrying about those who fled the city, first?" Yrsarald suggested. He turned to face Balgruuf. "I would not be surprised if more people begin to arrive at your gates. This of course is concerning for you, as some from Riverwood are already here, so I hear."

"Yes," Balgruuf replied, grimly. "We have already made lodging for Riverwood's people with some of our own citizens. Any more would have to be placed in the farmsteads, or may have to be given tents."

"And what of Helgen, Siddgeir?" Yrsarald asked the polished Jarl. "I hear it is still in ruins."

"Well, yes," Siddgeir fidgeted as he answered. "I can't seem to keep bandits out of it; otherwise, I would have ordered it rebuilt."

"And why not ask for aid?" Yrsarald continued. "Surely a handful of bandits cannot stand against trained guards or soldiers."

"We are not here to discuss Helgen," Laila reminded us.

"And why not?" Yrsarald replied. "If Helgen had been at least partially rebuilt over these last two years, those who escaped Markarth could have lived there, as could have those from Riverwood, or any other town that might be destroyed by a dragon. We  _are_ here in part to discuss the dragon problem, and the problem began at Helgen.  _Two years_ ago." Yrsarald let out a loud sigh and turned to me. His expression was annoyed, and yet hopeful.

"If there was any money," Siddgeir said to Yrsarald, "or any guards to spare, or if the Imperial army were not so busy fighting your men, Helgen would have been restored. If you have such  _authkelten_ , please, feel free."

"For now," Balgruuf interjected, "it might be wise to use our  _authkelten_  to prevent further dragon attacks before we begin to rebuild."

"There are  _two_  Dragonborns, apparently," Skald noted. "Should they not be the ones hunting the dragons?" The old Jarl turned to me, not with an angry look on his face, but not a pleasant one, either.

"Alright," Elisif put up a hand, and then let it float down to the table, gently joining the other. If nothing else, the woman was very graceful. "Can we  _please_  get the matter of this  _alita_  Dragonborn out of the way? I am still not convinced she should be included in the  _Stornegrin_."

"As I have already explained," Yrsarald replied, "Deborah has deep knowledge of history. She was at Saarthal, she is a student of the College of Winterhold, and was at  _Muna-_ glow Fortress just the other day investigating the matter of necromancy in our land. She served for a time as assistant to Windhelm's court mage, and helped to find the Butcher. The reasons do not end there, but I will not bore you all with the  _delen_. To  _not_  have her sitting here with us would be a  _skadin_  to us all."

"Let her stay," Siddgeir trilled in a lofty voice. "She has yet to say anything entirely stupid, after all." The sleazy Jarl winked at me. I heard a low growl vibrate from Yrsarald's throat.

"I promise to remain quiet about things I don't understand or have nothing to say about," I pledged. "This is your meeting, but I will answer questions or add information when needed."

"Fine," Idgrod uttered, briskly. "Let us move on. Since we are all here, we should discuss who is to be the new Jarl of Markarth when the city is retrieved, and indeed, how to regain control."

"And Windhelm's Jarl, too," added Elisif.

"Windhelm will be discussed later," Balgruuf countered.

"If Yrsarald is not truly Jarl, then he should not be part of this  _Stornegrin_." Elisif was as vengeful against Yrsarald as I expected she would be.

"He is here," Balgruuf replied, standing as he did so. "He represents Windhelm. He stays." The Jarl sat back down with a small grunt. "Now, is there any risk of the Forsworn or Orcs attacking other cities or villages?"

"Forsworn, no," Siddgeir answered, "I doubt it. They rarely even ventured into my lands. Orcs, I can't say."

"But now that the Forsworn have Markarth, what is stopping them from killing or sending away all farmers in The Reach?" Elisif's question was a valid one, a point I had not considered.

"What if this Orc – Torug, was it? – has a plan that includes the rest of us Jarls?" Korir asked. "How can we know if he and the Forsworn were only after Markarth? What if an army of orcs is marching on Falkreath or Rorikstead or Whiterun right now?"

"Orcs would not be interested in Rorikstead or Whiterun," Laila declared. "As I said, borders and mountains. Falkreath may be in danger, yes. Riften and perhaps Windhelm, too. All are near crossable borders into Morning-wind or Cyrodiil. I would not worry about Solitude, but the land west of that is mountainous and shares a border with High Rock. That said, the runner did not know  _how many_  Orcs were at Markarth. I know there are not many in this country, so I do not think we have to worry about Orc  _renten_."

"And how exactly do you know so much about Orcs, hmm?" Siddgeir asked the Jarl of Riften.

"My city is a trade center, Siddgeir, and there are Orc hunters in and out regularly. Unlike some, I don't mind if my land is short a few deer. The forests would be overrun, otherwise. And I take an interest in who comes to Riften."

"I'm sure you do…," Siddgeir commented in an all-too-obvious suggestive tone.

"I try to lead by example!" Laila sniped back. "Orcs, Khajiit and Argonians are not as horrible as most are led to believe."

"Enough!" Idgrod hissed. "Markarth, everyone. If no one from the city comes to us, we will need to choose from the families or courts of other Jarls. Or, perhaps, if we are feeling adventurous, we can attempt to rescue the Silver-Bloods from the mine."

"Well," Skald scoffed, "that would be self-death."

 _Suicide_ , I figured.

"The 'Dragonborn' should take the city," Siddgeir declared, gazing at me, smirking.

"What?" I asked him.

The Jarl nodded. "Like Ulfric, all those years ago. Just walk up the gate and blow it down."

I shook my head, adamantly opposed. "I cannot go against Torug. I was warned by Meridia about doing so before going to High Hrothgar. I need to train."

A moment of silence later, Siddgeir turned to Elisif and smiled. "I don't know why we bother. The Imperial army will have the city within days."

"Without someone who can Shout?" Idgrod scoffed, and then chuckled. "I'd like to see that."

"The Voice is not be used for such things," Balgruuf said sternly, almost angry.

"Oh, here we go…," Idgrod groaned.

"I'm serious," Balgruuf snarled, and then turned to me. "This Torug is abusing his power as Dragonborn. The Voice is sacred, not a weapon. Ulfric knew this, and look where that got him."

"Careful!" Yrsarald bellowed, bolting upright from his seat. I broke my own promise to myself about not showing displays of intimacy, and lightly grasped Yrsarald's forearm, silently begging him to sit back down. The large man obeyed, slowly, the rumbling in his chest fading. "Deborah cannot be  _used_  to take back Markarth, and neither can her Shouting. I agree with Balgruuf on this."

"Well, talking to those animals would certainly be useless," Siddgeir said, chuckling. "They'd sooner send out their  _kerlvaken_  than speak with us."

"Perhaps not," Balgruuf countered, drumming his fingers on the table, gathering his thoughts before continuing. "I heard rumors that the so-called 'King in Rags', Madanach, had escaped Cidhna not all that long ago."

" _Escaped_  Cidhna!?" Siddgeir scoffed. "Unlikely."

"Think about it," Balgruuf replied. "Not six months ago, the Greybeards called to a Dragonborn. We all felt the earth-shake. Rumors about a break from Cidhna started a while before that. Now, Markarth is taken by Forsworn and Orcs. I think Deborah is correct," he said, pointing to me. "I think this Torug met members of the Forsworn, perhaps Madanach himself, perhaps in Cidhna Mine. Who better able to assist in an escape than a Dragonborn?"

"But the Greybeards called to him after the rumored Cidhna incident," Idgrod reminded Balgruuf. "Perhaps being a big Orc is enough to assist in such a  _strag_."

Everyone nodded.

"So, the Silver-Bloods, then," Balgruuf concluded. "If Madanach is once again in control of Markarth, then I  _gruna_  that he will be open to talking with us."

"I have already sent word to the  _lifthkinen_  in the west," Elisif spoke louder that time, leaving behind her grace for the moment. "Though  _Lifthkine_  Tullius will be here shortly and not in The Reach, be sure that the Imperial army  _will_  take back Markarth. I cannot promise they will open talks with the Forsworn, nor can I promise the Silver-Bloods will be rescued. We should make a safety-plan, in case they are not. I, for one, have seen great promise in Kraldar Sorensen, cousin to my Thane, Erikur."

"Kraldar Mage-Kisser?" Korir laughed. "Somehow I am not surprised."

"Mage kisser?" I asked, quietly.

"Quiet, please," Idgrod said to Korir in a very harsh tone. She then turned to Elisif. "Continue."

"As I was saying, I put in Kraldar Sorensen of Winterhold as an option for Jarl of Markarth. He is an intelligent man whose family has been in the courts of Skyrim for centuries. He has an even mind, and has a good relationship with the College of Winterhold. Perhaps if he is Jarl of Markarth, his influence will spread across Skyrim."

"So  _ekjent_ ," Balgruuf said, calmly. "Who else can we discuss?"

"Sorli the  _Skape_ , of Stonehills, near Morthal," Laila proposed. "She and her family run an iron mine. Surely we want someone in Markarth who is knowledgeable of the mining business."

"A miner?" Siddgeir laughed. "Perhaps to run Cidhna, yes, but not the city around it."

"Obviously you do not understand how difficult it is to run a business, and run it well," Laila responded to Siddgeir.

"Sorli the  _Skape_ ,  _ekjent_ ," Balgruuf said, disregarding Siddgeir's remark.

"If we're only naming those who run a business, then why not Maven Black- _Thyrnrunn_?" Idgrod suggested.

"No," Balgruuf blurted. "Absolutely not."

"Agreed," Skald said. "I won't want to have to deal with her at future  _stornegrinen_."

"Well, then what about Brina Merilis?" Siddgeir suggested. "She was once married to an Imperial, but is in every way a Nord."

" _And_  a clear supporter of the Empire," Yrsarald noted.

"Indeed," Skald agreed, nodding.

"And that is a bad thing, why?" Siddgeir asked.

"Alright, everyone," Balgruuf said, standing. "We have two names suggested for the position of Jarl of Markarth should the Silver-Bloods not be rescued. Kraldar of Winterhold, and Sorli of Stonehills. I am not familiar with either person, so let us hear from their supporters." Balgruuf took his seat again.

Elisif stood first. "Kraldar and his family made many attempts to rebuild Winterhold after the Great Collapse. Despite lacking support, he has seen to the building of new houses and shops, bringing in new citizens." Elisif looked subtly to Korir, but only for a moment. "Kraldar has done much for Winterhold, but does not have a business of his own, there. From Erikur, I know that Kraldar has considered several times moving to Solitude; I am certain that he would not mind moving elsewhere. I believe he would be a fair and strong Jarl." Elisif smoothed the back of her dress as she sat down, resuming her graceful position of folded hands on the table.

Laila stood, next. "Sorli is accepting of all people, Nord or not. She has paid Argonians and Orcs to work in her mine, usually those who have nowhere else to go for work. She is respected and well-liked by her people. Her son is a grown man, and can easily take over the business for her if she and her husband move to Markarth. The iron from her mine is given to Solitude, but only because the mine and the land it is within are owned by one of Elisif's Thanes. She gives favor to neither Stormcloak nor Imperial, but she strongly dislikes anyone who does not treat others fairly, particularly some Nords." Laila looked to Yrsarald and me during her closing remarks, and there was no doubt in my mind that she was referring to Ulfric. I grasped Yrsarald's hand under the table.

Balgruuf stood again, letting his fingers stretch down to the table. The muscles of his thin, toned arms rippled momentarily. "Kraldar of Winterhold. Sorli of Stonehills. These are the two names put in for Jarl of Markarth. If no one from the Silver-Blood family is rescued, we will have a decision to make. Until then, we will await news from The Reach." The Jarl of Whiterun paused a moment, perhaps waiting for further comments. When none came, he closed the meeting. "Let us rest until dinner, and then, hold the  _stornegrin_  for Windhelm."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, the Jarls discuss the jarlship of Windhelm, and Deb gets some good news.
> 
> Ravakerl - Ravencrone  
> S/stornegrin - Moot (Council of Jarls); moot (political meeting)  
> Lithmir - Alliance  
> Authkelt - Resources ("wealth fountain")  
> Alita - Supposed/Presumed  
> Skadin - Detriment  
> Renten - Takeovers  
> Kerlvaken - Hagravens  
> Strag - Feat  
> Gruna – Suspect  
> Lifthkine – General ("team leader")  
> Ekjent - Acknowledged  
> Skape - Builder  
> Thyrnrunn – Briar ("thorn shrub")


	18. By the Eight

Before the evening meeting, Yrsarald took a much needed nap with the aid of a simple calming spell I had learned from Marcurio while on the road from Windhelm. Unfortunately, the night before, Yrsarald hadn't known that I could perform such a spell.

I was pleased to learn that, unlike in the Windhelm palace, the windows in this room could swing open, and they let in the constant, cool spring breeze. This allowed me to snuggle up behind Yrsarald without disrobing, acting the big spoon, thankfully comforting him enough for him to finally sleep. Soon after settling, Yrsarald began chuffing lightly, his version of snoring. The sound soothed me, and I dozed, too.

I wasn't allowed to sit in on the meeting to discuss the validity of Yrsarald's jarlship. I understood completely, because I knew how I felt about his new position. I was a bit biased. That I sat in on the first meeting was an exception to tradition because of who I was. Balgruuf had insisted that I sit in on that meeting.

For Yrsarald's hearing, I listened from the upper level of the palace in a sitting area down the hall from the guestrooms. It acted as a balcony of sorts, looking over the main hall. A serving girl set a small jug of wine, a bowl of stew, and a plate of fruit and cheese before me, but I was too intent on listening to the meeting to imbibe.

"Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced," Jarl Balgruuf began, "by the  _ervthask_  of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm, you were made his heir and upon his death inherited his throne – a position you accepted. Do you wish to remain Jarl of Windhelm until Sovngarde takes you?" The question shocked me.  _Until Sovngarde takes you._ Until death.

"Yes," Yrsarald replied promptly, "I will remain Jarl of Windhelm until Sovngarde takes me."  _Until Oblivion takes you, you mean_ , I said to myself.  _God damn it, don't cry don't cry don't cry._

The man Yrsarald had told me about, Tullius, must have arrived earlier in the evening. He must have insisted on sitting in on Yrsarald's hearing. Tullius, a general or commander of sorts, was not very fearsome-looking – balding and almost dainty in stature – but he wore elaborate Romanesque armor that I immediately recognized to be that of the Imperial army. I thought he looked a bit familiar, in fact, but I couldn't figure from where, and wondered if I had seen him at Helgen.

After Balgruuf confirmed that Yrsarald was still interested in being Jarl, Tullius stood, and I grew nervous. When he began to speak, I noted that his accent was strange, a bit nasal in tone, and that he enunciated his words with care. "Yrsarald… Thrice-Pierced. You, yourself, are  _not_  wanted for the murder of High King Torygg, nor will you or anyone else be arrested on the matter.  _That_ matter, of course, is dead." My breath caught. I looked immediately to Yrsarald, certain he would have started growling or grumbling at a remark like that, worried that he might even retaliate physically. I had half a mind to throw my boot at the scrawny General. Thankfully, Yrsarald remained calm, and silent. "However," Tullius continued, "though all  _stornegrinen_ are held under the law of a weapon-rest, the active rebellion by soldiers once commanded by Ulfric Stormcloak and now by yourself cannot be ignored."  _Shit_. My stomach twisted into a series of knots. No wonder I was asked not to sit in on this meeting. "Though this  _Stornegrin_  may accept your position as Jarl of Windhelm, the Imperial Army cannot  _trigjar_  your safety while in Whiterun Hold once the  _stornegrinen_ are closed. Knowing this, do you still accept the position?"

"Yes," Yrsarald answered, sounding slightly perturbed. "Of course."

 _Did Tullius just say he cannot assure… guarantee Yrsarald's safety outside Whiterun?_  I reached for the jug of wine before me, poured a generous amount into my goblet, and chugged. Another. My head was quickly light from the wine and I set down the goblet, instead occupying my hands by gripping the wooden railing that lined the sitting area.

Tullius sat down, finished with his speech that apparently had the sole purpose of reminding Yrsarald that he and his army and possibly even the city of Windhelm were all enemies of the state, as it were. I wondered, then, if all the other Stormcloak-allied Jarls were also in danger of being apprehended by the Imperial Army once these meetings were over. The hall suddenly became overly warm and stifling; I wasn't sure if it was from the wine or my nerves.

"There are some who believe they deserve the throne of Windhelm in your stead," Balgruuf said to Yrsarald. "Two from Windhelm, one from Dawnstar, and one from Dragon Bridge. Before we gathered for this  _stornegrin_ , their names were read to the rest of us. Only one of these people was considered  _balthna_. He will be considered as a  _varam_  against you, as we  _atvar_." Balgruuf slouched back into his seat. "If you would, Yrsarald, please explain to us why you should remain Jarl of Windhelm."

My partner stood slowly. He suddenly reminded me a lot of Ulfric, particularly because he had neatly-trimmed hair again, but also due to his regal attire and posture. He almost appeared stoic, and I recalled the day his jarlship was announced to the people of Windhelm. The man definitely knew how to act like a ruler.

Yrsarald opened by relating his personal relationship with Ulfric. He described him the same way he had to me: "Ulfric was as a brother to me. War was our mother." They had fought battles side by side when Yrsarald was quite young, barely a teenager, and in a sense they grew up together, raised by war. To my surprise, Yrsarald acknowledged the hardships Windhelm had seen, particularly by the resident Dark Elves. He reported that several arrests had been made over the last few weeks of Nords causing trouble for the elves – news to my ears – and that funds were slowly being appropriated to the renovation of the area in which the elves lived, the so-called Grey Quarter. He was working closely with his steward in these matters and more, all with the hope that Windhelm would one day be "equal to other cities in Skyrim in their fair treatment of all citizens." I briefly wondered if he was also including werebears in that lot, but I doubted it. The entire time Yrsarald spoke, he remained calm and only moderately passionate, perhaps hoping to prove that he wasn't as hot-headed as Ulfric had been (something I had only witnessed several times). When he had no more to add to his statement, he sat down, and then gazed in my direction for just a moment. To my relief, Yrsarald left out any talk of the ongoing rebellion, of Torug, or the Empire. Today he was simply a Jarl, the protector of an ancient city.

Balgruuf eyed the rest of the Jarls. "A show of hands, then. Those in support of Yrsarald's claim to the throne of Windhelm?" I stared down at the crowd below me, quickly counting hands and noting their owners: Yrsarald, Laila, Skald, Korir, and Balgruuf. Five. Five votes. Yrsarald was apparently allowed to vote for himself. "And those not in support of Yrsarald's claim to the throne of Windhelm, but in favor of the  _varam_?" Siddgeir, Idgrod, Elisif. Three. Three votes. Tullius wasn't allowed a vote, apparently.  _Thank fuck._ Even if the Jarl of Markarth had been alive, the votes in Yrsarald's favor would have still been the majority. For whatever reason, Balgruuf wanted Yrsarald to be Jarl.

I exhaled sharply, clinging to the railing for fear of falling.  _Thank you_ , I said, over and over again in my head to whoever was listening.  _Thank you._

The Jarl of Whiterun stood. "It is decided. Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced is Jarl of Windhelm, as was Ulfric Stormcloak's wish. Perhaps the decision of this  _Stornegrin_ should be written down in case such a thing happens again." He paused, turning briefly to Elisif. "Tomorrow morning, the Mage Council will meet, and after midday we will talk of dragons, and necromancy."

. . . . . .

The evening was a pleasant one, so Yrsarald and I decided to yet again take a stroll around the city, with Ingjard following at a protective distance. As we talked, we ambled aimlessly down paths and city streets and up and down steps, simply enjoying the cool spring twilight, as well as each other. I was reminded of the much simpler days, months ago while I was carrying Flavia, when Yrsarald first began courting me, officially. Though he had been busy with his position as military advisor, we had found the time to take walks, sometimes talking nonstop or, other times, walking silently hand-in-hand. Just as we did all those months ago, we 'window shopped' around the various merchant booths before they closed for the night, usually only buying food. While I was pregnant, Yrsarald and I had shared a similar stomach schedule. My current strong appetite had calmed since it first amped up, and I figured whatever Kyne had done to me was wearing off.

"I think Kyne did not want me to become pregnant," I mused as we strolled.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because, she sent me her blessing, and it took away Flavia's milk. It made me hungry and gave me energy, but she took me away from Flavia. Perhaps all the gods wanted me to leave Windhelm."

"If the gods did not want you to ever become pregnant, they would have made it so when they rebuilt you."

I turned to my partner. He made a good point. "Hm, yes, I can agree to that."

"Perhaps they very much want you to have children, but also want you to do your duty."

"My duty…."

"Yes, what you have been doing. You went to that fortress, and now you're here, participating in the meetings of Jarls and mages. Soon, you will travel to High Hrothgar. I doubt you would want to be with child up there."

He was right. Of course he was right. I only hoped that at some point in the future I would be allowed to actually experience the childhood of any future children I would bear. "Have you ever thought of names?"

"Names?"

"For children. Future children. I always had a list of names that I liked, names from my world. But, then I couldn't… I never became pregnant, so, I stopped thinking about it. But then, Flavia…. I started to think about it again." I turned to Yrsarald. "But, the problem is, I don't know what kinds of names are… tradition here. I know the names of people that I know, my friends. Flavia is a name from my world. I chose it because the name is from a people that Marcurio reminds me of. I could think of many names from my world that remind me of the Nords, but, I don't know if I should name a child that way."

"Is it not a little early to think about names? You are not pregnant."

"No, not now. But I like thinking about names. Have you never thought about names?"

I felt Yrsarald's fingers tighten around mine. "I never had a reason to."

I smiled, more out of contrition and sympathy than anything else. "There is no reason needed for thinking about names, just for fun." Yrsarald became a bit tense, and I rubbed his back. "Your father was called Geirald. You are Yrsarald. So, why not name a son of yours 'something-rald'? A family of protectors."

It took him a while, but eventually Yrsarald nodded, and smiled somewhat. "That would be nice."

"And for a daughter? There must be at least one name you heard, or read, and thought, 'I like that name. That is a nice name.'"

My partner smiled broadly, then. "You mean besides your name?"

I smirked. "Yes."

Still smiling, he looked ahead, down the path we randomly chose. "Isgeror. I read about her in a book I had, as a child. Isgeror White-Wave." He chuckled. "You would like her. She killed a necromancer. She was a headwoman, in Solstheim."

"Head-woman?"

"A Jarl, of sorts, of a small village."

"Oh. Isgeror… killed a necromancer…. Not bad."

He chuckled again. "We can talk more of names when we need to. Talking too much before you are even pregnant is not a good thing."

"You are… superstitious." I proudly stressed the new word I had learned recently.

"Yes, so I am." He kissed my temple and we turned down another path, closing in on the Drunken Huntsman, from which rowdy music was blaring. "When the time comes, you can choose what comes before 'rald'."

I grinned. "Alright." I turned to the tavern door, and my smile faded. "Stenvar is likely inside. He never came to the palace…."

Yrsarald advanced. He knew how much I needed to talk to Stenvar about Markarth.

I was stunned and confused by what I saw inside. A group of four people were happily singing and playing various instruments. Stenvar and other patrons were singing along. I wondered if any of them knew about Markarth – why else would Stenvar not appear devastated? My sellsword friend spotted me, Yrsarald, and Ingjard at the door and winked, raising his mug in greeting. The lute player, a Nord man I didn't recognize, played like someone would a banjo, fast and intricate. Between the shouts and drunken sing-alongs of the tavern's patrons, I could barely understand the words of the very fast and upbeat song.

_Lisari klus skap' ovulari vanklus_  
_Sa'r hvol Reh skul finstur_  
_Par vathvet hila ik grim_  
_Rekjatur ast Ha klus_

_Krofton er temetur ast unath_  
_Ervthaskaar frafarig_  
_Thath er lov ik da sil naer da tilbas Brii_  
_Lov Dibella lova_

I didn't register the rest of the lyrics, distracted by Brelyna dancing with a woman I recognized from the market. Jenassa was in the corner, watching with a tiny smile, her foot gently, discreetly taping in time to the music. Yrsarald, Ingjard, and I waited for the song to end, which took a good long while as it seemed the crowd was egging on the players, desiring more repetitions of what I guessed was the chorus. I watched as the lute player's fingers plucked the strings with deft speed, as a short woman played a flute, as a Wood Elf man played a large drum, and as a red-haired Redguard woman used a sort of jingling silver bell-type thing to add to the beat. The end of the song finally came, and it was met by roaring applause, cheers, and whistles.

To my surprise and confusion, a young girl of maybe twelve ran up to Stenvar and hugged him, and he picked her up into the air, swinging her about. I had no idea how to process that. Not at all. The gears of my brain met a jarring halt. An older woman, somewhat older than Stenvar I guessed, walked up to the pair. By the look of her concerned and disapproving expression, she was likely the girl's grandmother. Stenvar placed the girl back on her feet, patted the older woman's arm, and then walked over to me and Yrsarald. My sellsword friend outstretched his arms and grasped my and Yrsarald's shoulders. With a beaming grin, Stenvar greeted us with a "So good to see you two." I turned to see Yrsarald as confused and stunned as I was.

"Stenvar…," I spoke, tentative, as quietly as I could while still being heard over the crowd, "what is all this? Did you not hear about Markarth?"

He let a frown break his smile, and nodded. "Of course I heard. It's awful. But, the  _Forloge_  n' the Mother made it out alive – for this, we celebrate. Dibella's temple may be closed to us, for now, but its heart is here with us."

I shook my head. "The mother? What—"

"Hamal!" Stenvar turned around and called to the older woman. I then realized she was dressed in the same garb as priests I had met. The girl walked over too, flipping the skirt of her simple dress to and fro, and was soon standing in front of Stenvar, grasping at his linen shirt, grinning with delight. She was treating him almost as a child would a father, or grandfather. "Hamal, Fjotra," Stenvar said with his hands on the girl's shoulders, "these are my friends, Deborah, and Jarl Yrsarald of Windhelm. Hamal here," he nodded to his side, "is the Mother, in charge of the temple, all priestesses n' rituals. Fjotra is the  _Forloge_ , Dibella's living vessel."

"Living vessel?" I asked.

The child grinned. "Dibella says you and I have a lot in common and that we should talk sometime. But not now. You have an important meeting soon."

My mouth momentarily forgot how to form words. "I-I, yes, I do."

"I will be in Whiterun for a while, I think," the girl continued. "They gave me a room at the Temple of Kynareth. Dibella is most pleased!"

"Come,  _Forloge_. It is late." The older woman nodded to me and Yrsarald, and ushered the girl out of the tavern.

I turned to Stenvar. "What do I have in common with that girl? Because I talk to Meridia?"

Stenvar's smile was not really a happy one, I thought, but perhaps rather masking grief. "I'll let you n' her talk about that. So, big meeting tomorrow? I'm told that all of Skyrim's court mages are stayin' at the temple."

"Yes," I confirmed. "The Mage's Council will meet after breakfast, and then later the Jarls and mages both."

"Well then," Stenvar's smile was more genuine that time, "I suppose I can't convince you to stay very long."

"No, not long," Yrsarald answered for me.

"I only wanted to tell you about Markarth, in case you didn't know. But, you do, so…." I tucked an annoying bit of hair behind my ear. "So, if Markarth is not open to anyone… what will happen with the temple? What if the city is lost forever?"

Stenvar sighed, and shrugged. "Fjotra will tell us if we need to rebuild."

. . . . . .

Yrsarald was silent for most of the walk back to the palace. When we reached the courtyard, he stopped, and gazed up at the stone face of Talos.

"I wonder…," he muttered.

"Hmm?"

"I wonder if we actually  _can_  take back Markarth without your help."

"But Balgruuf said I shouldn't. You agreed."

"Only because I—" He sighed, and grasped my hand as he turned away from Talos, facing me. "I was being selfish. Overly protective."

"Hmph. I am not surprised."

Yrsarald grinned, a bit sheepishly, I thought. "Yes, I admit this. But, yes, I wonder. Would using your dragon voice truly offend Kyne? Perhaps Dibella – well, that little girl, perhaps she can tell you what the gods want. Or you can ask Meridia." He turned back to the statue. He walked toward the upside-down double-axe, Mjölniresque shrine at the base and pressed his hands to the metal. "I wonder – what would Talos do?"

I didn't answer the assumingly rhetorical question. Talos was a god of war of sorts, and were he alive I figured he'd storm Markarth just as Ulfric had. I figured if Talos was listening, and he might have been, perhaps Yrsarald would hear or feel an answer. And, then, I watched as the shrine glowed a faint wine-red, the tell-tale sign of a divine response.

I walked up behind my partner and wrapped an arm around his waist. "Did he say anything?"

Yrsarald traced his fingers along the edge of the double axe, stopped the movement, and then turned to me. "No, but I felt his presence."

I stepped forward and lifted my hands to the shrine, cupping each stylized axe blade.  _Should I help take back Markarth? Should I train with the Greybeards and then use the voice for something other than worshipping Kyne?_ I waited for a response, and waited some more. I heard an owl hoot.

"Storm," a deep, guttural voice said unexpectedly inside my head as the shrine glowed. The voice spoke Norren.

I jerked back, surprised, and turned to Yrsarald. "What?" he asked.

"He said, 'Storm'." We both turned once more to Talos. "What does a storm have to do with using a dragon voice?"

"I don't know. Maybe 'Stormcloak'? 'Stormcrown' – that was what they called Talos, an earned name after victory in battle. Or it is what his name meant in the old language. The legends are unclear."

"Storm…," I repeated, gazing at the stone god. "Storm, war…. Yrsa," I turned to him, "do you think Tullius will arrest you after these meetings finish?"

His beard was glowing like the fires of the lit braziers flanking the statue. Hair that color always reflected firelight so brightly. He ran a finger and thumb over the trimmed hairs, thinking. "By our laws, the truce will not end until three dawns following the end of the meeting. Tullius is a smart man – he will not break this law." He sighed, and walked with me to a bench. "Normally when Jarls travel, they take a group of guards with them. I figured, with Calder and two mages at my side, I would be just fine. And the more guards in Windhelm, the better. If Tullius does try to arrest me," he wrapped an arm around my shoulders, "I won't have many defenses. And Wuunferth and Marcurio are not sworn to protect me with their own lives like Calder is. That is not their job."

"Marc will protect you. I know he will." I leaned my head on his shoulder. "I suppose Tullius expects you will take one of the two roads north from Whiterun? I saw a map in the palace, one of this Hold and one of the country. I looked at the roads, to try and see how I would get to a town called Ivarstead. There are two paths, but one is shorter – I think, anyway. What if…," I leaned in close to my partner, lips pressed to his ear. I had been speaking quietly already, but now barely whispered, even wanting Ingjard not to hear. "What if, from Whiterun, I go to Ivarstead, to High Hrothgar? I would hate not seeing Bird and Flavia before, but…. Anything I will need while with the Greybeards I am sure I can buy here. Instead of traveling north the three days to Windhelm, you could travel south with me to Ivarstead. Is that not Stormcloak area? Maybe not, but… I do not think anyone would expect that. And then, you would have Calder and Wuunferth and Marcurio  _and_ me and Ingjard traveling with you."

I finished whispering, pulled back, and Yrsarald turned to me with a look of surprise. What was now a short beard spread wide in a smile, just has his trimmed goatee used to do. The crow's feet wrinkles flanking his eyes creased deeply. He lifted his hands to cup my jaws, thumbs caressing my cheeks. He chuckled as he spoke. "I knew that I loved you for a reason." My laughing response was cut off by his kiss.

"Deborah," a familiar voice called from behind me. I turned to see Marcurio, frowning and pallid, walking around to the front of the bench.

I swallowed hard. "Marc? What's wrong?"

"You're requested at the temple," he explained.

"Now?" I asked. "Why?"

"A meeting has been called."

"We're meeting tomorrow."

Marcurio shook his head. "This meeting needs to happen first. Now." He stepped closer, and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Away from the palace's ears." He turned to Yrsarald. "Including yours. I'm sorry."

Yrsarald shook his head. "No, it's fine. Mage business…. Ingjard and I will wait here for you."

"Ehh," Marcurio interjected before clearing his throat, "Savos told me that the meeting might take a long time."

"You should rest, Yrsa," I reminded my partner. He could use a full night's sleep.

He smiled, nodded, and kissed my cheek. "I will see you later."

The temple entrance, when following the path around the big tree at the center of the courtyard, was only a short walk from the Talos statue. Immediately once Yrsarald was out of earshot, Marcurio took my hand in his as we walked. "The mages are all in the common room on the second floor. Let me tell you – Wuunferth was  _not_  happy about being woken up. But we had to meet."

" _Why_ , Marc?"

He pressed his lips together and said nothing as he pushed in the temple door, nor while we meandered our way to the staircase. Once away from the sick and injured, he answered quietly. "I was just told we all needed to meet. Only Savos knows why. He wanted you there." I was led down a hall, and Marcurio stopped when we reached a double door. He turned, and grasped both of my hands. "Before we go inside, you need to know…." He took a deep breath before continuing. "It was Onmund who brought news."

My eyes widened. My lips parted. " _Onmund_!?" I gasped.

"He went to Savos first. No one saw him because… well, he was invisible. I heard Savos scream from the next room. Apparently Onmund has been in Whiterun for longer than I have. He must have heard about the  _stornegrinen._ "

"What  _news_ , Marc!?" I asked in a harsh whisper.

"I'll let Onmund explain it. I just wanted to make sure you were prepared to see him. He's… changed."

"Changed?"

"Yes…. But, you'll be alright in there, speaking with him? You won't be alone."

"Well, yes. I will be fine." It was just Onmund, after all.  _Little shit._

Marcurio nodded, and held open one of the doors for me. The small hall was a welcoming one, lit by candelabras and decorated with hanging plants, and in the center was an oval table with mages crowded around it. A male figure dressed in black steel and chain mail stood at the head with his back to me. A shining, metallic staff, forged and painted to look like a red, thorned rose, was hitched to his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, Onmund's news, and the Mage Council meeting.
> 
> The tavern song was based on "The Brightest Lights" by King Charles, and the lyrics were altered to fit the story.
> 
> The brightest light creates the darkest shadow  
> That's where She'll be found  
> For whatever hides in the darkness  
> Is chased away by Her light
> 
> Corruption is tamed by pleasure  
> Willingly surrendering  
> There's a song in your soul when you bow to Beauty  
> The song Dibella sings
> 
> Ervthask - Will/Wish  
> Stornegrin - Administrative Meeting ("moot") or Council of Jarls ("Moot")  
> Trigjar - Guarantee  
> Balthna - Worthy  
> Varam - Alternate  
> Atvar - Vote


	19. Masks

_5 years ago…_

I walked in to the apartment, only half-thinking about where I would put the grocery bags. My hands methodically removed the items, placing them with care on the countertop.

"Did you remember the coffee this time?" my friend and roommate Shaleva asked with only a hint of mocking derision.

"Yeah," I whispered in reply. I picked up the bag of Caribou Coffee Breakfast Blend to prove the act, briefly showcasing it like an infomercial object.

"Cute." She smirked, and then watched me as I put away the frozen pizzas. "Are you okay?" I didn't answer at first, because I wasn't sure. I was still processing. "Deb…."

"Yes," I answered too quickly, sighing when I was forced to admit that I was not. "No. Shay, I… saw her today."

"Her?"

I stared at my friend.  _Who else would I refrain from naming_? my glare asked her.

"Oh."

"Yeah. 'Oh'." I shoved the bottles of cheap white wine into the refrigerator door rack, all mine – Shaleva didn't drink.

"Did she talk to you?"

"No. Why would she? I don't think she noticed me." Shaleva picked up the mesh sack of apples and walked them over to the sink. "She had the baby with her." My friend refrained from responding. "Probably the cutest fucking baby ever to exist. Of  _course_. Should have seen the eyelashes on him. I bet it's a him, anyway. Eyelashes just like Greg's. Skin almost as dark as his." I finished fitting the perishables into the fridge and went straight for the half-empty bottle of chilled Pinot, soon after whipping out one of my favorite wine glasses, a hand-sized stemless with 'VINUM' etched into the side, and 'ROME' into the base. Bought from HBO's website, of course. I cherished the set. The glass was barely big enough for my needs that evening, though. "I hate myself for being angry at a  _baby_."

"Not so much  _her_  anymore?"

I swigged the wine. "Yes."

"I'll never understand why you are madder at her than Greg."

"Because she  _knew_  he was married, Shay. She  _knew_ , and yet waltzed on into our life, not stopping…." I was certain that I was repeating myself, but I didn't care. "I can't help but feel she stole my life, my territory, my future."

"'Territory'? Husbands aren't property."

Swig. "I didn't  _say_  'property'…. And I didn't say that it was  _right_ , it's just how I felt. Feel. I  _feel_  that she was greedy, thinking she could take whatever she wanted. It doesn't matter if Greg went to her without a fight. I still blame her equally... if not more. I'm a walking hypocrite of a feminist."

" _Cha_ , I'll say…."

"Hmph…." Swig. "I feel like she conquered my life. Made it her own. Made me assimilate."

My friend rolled her pretty hazel eyes. "You're too early into your wine to start paralleling ancient Rome to your life."

. . . . . .

_5 seconds ago…_

My sigh was drawn-out, tedious. "Onmund…." Aside from two long, finger-wide lines of crimson tattoos running down the length of his face from forehead to mouth, passing over his eyelids, he was the same little shit that got himself expelled from the college. Instead of a mage's robe he now wore what looked like black steel over black chain mail. The metal of his armor was spiked at the shoulders, making him appear larger than he actually was. The metal rose-head staff peeked out from behind him. "Nice staff."

Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed Elodie, frowning, standing near the corner of the room behind Savos Aren. Onmund did not appear remorseful, or happy, but rather had the appearance of being all business. Stern, even. "Hello, Deborah," was all he offered in reply.

"Can we get on with this please?" a woman asked. "We all have a very long day ahead of us tomorrow."

Marcurio left my side to take his place behind a seated, tired Wuunferth. I took tentative steps toward an empty chair that was unfortunately next to Onmund. "I was told you wanted me here. Now I am here. What is this news?"

Onmund cleared his throat. "You will want to be sitting."

I rolled my eyes and did as the armored little shit suggested.

The little shit smiled. No, smirked. "I am here," he began, "because I had information that I thought needed to be shared – shared with the right people. Now, we all know that invisibility is a perfectly  _gylta_  practice, and my  _fern_  in the spell enabled me to… hire myself out to others who had need for such a skill. As you can see," he flourished his fingers, letting the candlelight flash against the gemstones of his rings, "I have done well for myself. I eventually found work with unexpected companions, and was charged with infiltrating the Thalmor  _Vesekont_."

"What!?" a tall, most likely High Elf woman gasped. She was sitting next to a short older human woman, and was clearly aghast.

"I had my reasons, as did my employer. But, my employer  _used_ me, fell back on her promises, and therefore she will never know what information I found." Onmund chuckled. "Well, she may when everyone else does…."

"What information, boy?" asked the mage who served Jarl Balgruuf; he had bigger muttonchops than Calder.

Onmund waved his right hand, and in front of him on the table appeared a stack of papers. Apparently the little shit could make anything invisible. His next parlor trick shocked me, though. With a series of gentle waves of his right hand, the papers slid gracefully down the table toward various people, three of them to me. I recalled that Wuunferth had some sort of telekinetic powers, no doubt a spell, and I was incredibly unnerved that Onmund shared the same magical knowledge.

I looked down at one of the papers, and immediately saw my name written at the top. "What is this?"

"What is this about Ulfric?" asked Wuunferth.

"The Blades…," a Woof Elf woman gasped.

"I'll wait until you all have a chance to read them. No use in me telling you." Onmund stepped back from the table toward the wall and leaned against it, arms crossed over his armored chest. I was wary about sitting with my back to him, but was comforted by the fact that Savos was sitting at the opposite end of the table and could keep an eye on the little shit.

"I recognize your writing, Onmund," Savos asserted, clearly annoyed.

"These are just my  _tyden_." He reached into his knapsack, hung at his hip, and pulled out a stack of leather-bound journals. "These are the originals, written in Aldmeris."

" _You_  know Aldmeris?" the High Elf woman asked.

Onmund smirked again and walked with heavy, firm steps toward the doubting elf. He laid one of the journals in front of the woman and then waved his right hand to send one of the papers on top of it. "No, I had help. See for yourself. The words will match."

I didn't wait for the elf to confirm the translations' validity, and read the paper set before me.

 

> _Deborah, family name unknown_
> 
> _Status: Active (Capture Only),_ ~~_Low_ ~~_Medium Priority, Representative Level Approval_
> 
> _Description: Female, has the_ likant _of a Nord but is either of lesser intellect or not a Nord, 20 to 30 years of age_

Lesser intellect.  _Splendid,_  I thought,  _but at least I look young for my age_.

 

> _Background: An informant claims Deborah is from the future which may explain her odd way of speaking. First Representative Elenwen recalls seeing her at Helgen, from which she obviously escaped. An informant in the Imperial Army reported she spent time in Riverwood before relocating to Windhelm. She is at the time of this report a student at the Winterhold mage's college. Likely allied with the Stormcloaks. Her presence at Helgen and escape may be of interest, as is her apparent origin. She is not able to be tracked with magic of any kind in or outside of the mage's college._
> 
> Rexa _Note: Informant-level questioning only unless found alone. Arrest impossible while at the mage's college._

"Arrest!?" I whispered to myself.

 

> _A new informant may have to be sent to the college as Ancano has left his position and is missing._
> 
> _Third Representative's Note: Deborah has returned to Windhelm and is confirmed as allied with the Stormcloaks. Currently with child as of this note, 5_ _th_ _of Sun's Dusk, 4E 202. Recommended priority level increased to medium. Magical wards necessary if approached._

"The  _tyden_  are correct," the High Elf mage commented. "Who is this 'Summoner' described? 'Her known  _methlimen_  are former students of the mage's college at Winterhold: Orthorn, Sild, Vals, Malkoran, Calixto, and Naris.' I recall some of these names mentioned at our last meeting. Are all of these necromancers working for some woman called The Summoner?"

The conversation turned to necromancy, and my attention fell back toward the papers in front of me. Obviously Onmund had stolen the documents months before Flavia was born, or else surely the author would have noted that I was no longer pregnant, and that Ulfric, two months after Flavia was born, was killed. The third paper I was given was a list of names.

 

> Methlimen
> 
> _Ralof of Riverwood – Escaped Helgen. Blond Nord, 30 to 35 years of age. Stormcloak, Active, Location Unknown, High Priority_
> 
> _Stenvar – Possibly_ methlimetur  _with the Grey-Mane family of Whiterun but our informant does not agree. Bald Nord, 50 years of age. Sellsword. Frequents Windhelm, Low Priority_
> 
> _Wuunferth Akiker – Elder Nord, Court Wizard to Ulfric Stormcloak, Medium Priority_
> 
> _Orri Winter-Heart of Dawnstar – Nicknamed Bird. Blond Nord, 30 to 35 years of age. Courier between Windhelm and Winterhold. Husband of Marcurio Liore, Lowest Priority_
> 
> _Marcurio Liore – Imperial, 35 years of age. Mage, now living in Windhelm. Husband of Orri Winter-Heart, Low Priority_
> 
> _Brelyna Maryon – Dunmer, over 100 years of age. House_ Telvanni _. Mage at the college in Winterhold, Lowest Priority_

I stared at the list of names and descriptions. I read them again. Three times.  _What is_ 'methlimen' _?_ I asked myself.  _Friends? Associates?_  It had to be one of them. As of the time I returned to Windhelm, the listed names indeed belonged to those I held most dear at the time, though perhaps lacking Yrsarald, Elodie and Savos. I flipped the paper over.

"Oh,  _gods_!" I cried, gasping and sobbing at the same time.

Someone stood from a chair. "Deb? What is it?" It was Marcurio who spoke.

I couldn't remove my eyes from the paper.

 

> _Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced – Redhead Nord, 45 years of age. Windhelm. Soldier in the Imperial Army during the Great War. Military advisor to Ulfric Stormcloak, Highest Priority_

Below my partner's name and description was a note that read:  _Not human? Rumored werebeast but this information in not reliable._  I turned to Onmund. "Who else has seen this!?"

The little shit smiled.  _Smiled!_  "Only one very helpful Prince." He chuckled. I got chills.

 _Ignore him_ , I ordered myself, looking back to the paper. It was only a list of names, names of people that I knew. I crumpled it up and stuffed it in my robe's pocket.

"What are you doing?" a woman asked me. I didn't answer her.

"Will someone please tell everyone what these papers are?" another woman asked. "Who else is described in them?" I wasn't quite sure, but I thought that for just a moment, her eyes flashed red. I figured it would have been bad form and suspicious to cast an undead detection spell in a room full of mages, though, and ignored the fact that I thought I was in the presence of a vampire.

I turned to Wuunferth and cleared the lump from my throat. "You have something about Ulfric?"

He nodded. "Yes. Nothing new to my knowledge, but to others…."

"Who is yours about?" Marcurio asked me.

I frowned. "Me. It's about me." I deliberately left out the part that he and Bird were listed as associates of mine.

"Torug, the Orc Dragonborn," the Wood Elf woman offered.  _Good god,_  I thought to myself.

"'The Summoner, a necromancer," said the High Elf woman. "She has no known name."

The Whiterun Court Mage, the man with the impressive muttonchops, sighed. "Heimskr. Priest of Talos."

"Delphine, a  _Harstene_ ," the possible vampire said, "member of a group called The Blades. I thought they were all gone…."

"Oh?" the other, shortest woman asked, and held up her papers. "Esbern, also a member of The Blades."

"Who are The Blades?" I asked.

The Blades. Bodyguards of the Emperor, or so they used to be. They were also the Empire's servants and spies. Fairly recently they were disbanded, and persecuted by the Thalmor during the Great War. The Blades were also legendary dragon hunters. Torug was listed in his Thalmor document as possibly being recruited by remaining Blades members Delphine and Esbern. All three of them were high priority subjects of the Thalmor, though I still wasn't exactly sure what sorts of subjects the Thalmor were interested in.

"Alright," Savos spoke next, "what do all of these people have in common?"

Everyone was quiet for a few moments, deep in thought.

"Enemies of the Thalmor – Blades, Stormcloaks," the High Elf suggested. "A priest of Talos. And this 'Summoner' is said to be wanted too, that she knows of some sort of artifacts that were found in Skyrim. Saarthal is mentioned. I wonder how much of this is connected to the Dragonborn – ehh, sorry, Dragon _borns._ "

"I have one more document, here," Onmund interrupted, pulling a small, folded paper from his knapsack. "At first I thought nothing of it. I met an Altmer man in The Rift, outside a ruin. I helped him obtain something inside the ruin, and then, unfortunately, I had to kill him." He smirked, and again reached into his knapsack. What he pulled out was completely unexpected. "This is the  _grim_  of an ancient Dragon Priest. Inside, his name is inscribed.  _Rahgot_. I don't know what it means, but I wondered if it was similar to our words,  _reth_ and  _ger._ "

I considered, quickly, the word he spoke.  _'Reth', anger. 'Ger', to make._

Onmund turned the green metallic mask about, studying it. "Interestingly, wearing the mask makes me feel quite strong." With one hand, Onmund raised the mask to his face, and left it there. Without a band or strap or hooks of any kind, the mask simply stayed put. He quickly took it off, revealing yet another smirk. He walked toward the table, laid the mask in front of him, and magic'd the small note across the table to the High Elf. "I didn't have time to translate this – ah, well, that is, write it down. The elf I found it on was kind enough to tell me what it said."

The High Elf mage read the note quickly. "'You will proceed to the ruins of  _Forelhost_ to retrieve the  _Grim_  from the Dragon  _Truthun_ there. If you are found'…," she stopped reading aloud, and chuckled as she read to herself. "'Once you have obtained the  _Grim_ , bring it to  _Ormra_.'"

" _Ormra_?" Savos repeated. "That is most curious."

"Yes," the elf passed the note down the line, Savos being the intended recipient.

"I thought so, too," the little shit added. "That's why I went there."

Savos groaned. "What?"

Onmund pulled out another piece of paper from his knapsack, rolled up and tied with a leather thong. He walked it over to Savos, who promptly opened the scroll. "Is this your sketch?" he asked the little shit.

"Yes. Whatever that Altmer was after, it is connected to this. I'm sure of it. I'm also convinced that the Altmer was a member of the Thalmor."

"Why do you think that?" the High Elf mage asked.

"Aldmeris," Onmund answered. "Both those documents and that note are in Aldmeris. I have known many Altmer, and none of them ever spoke or wrote Aldmeris. Who else in this world would still use such an old language?"

The High Elf mage nodded, and turned to Savos. "He's right – I have studied it, but I never use the old language anymore. I don't know anyone who does, except a few elders."

"I believe  _Ormra_  is very important, connected to what happened at Saarthal." Onmund pulled out a book from his knapsack, which afterwards appeared to hang much lighter on his shoulder, suggesting he had revealed the last of his documents. "This book writes about the ruin, and writes about an ancient city once located there, possibly the capital of Skyrim during the days of the Dragon  _Truthun_. The city of Bromjunaar."

 _Bromjunaar._ Onmund pronounced the 'J' like I would when saying my father's name, Jake, but he struggled with the sound.  _Bromjunaar. Bromj–_ "Oh, oh!" I bolted upright from my slouched position. The gears in my head were spinning out of control. "Bromjunaar!"

"Yes, what of it?" Wuunferth asked.

"I dreamed that word! I did not, could not remember it…. But I'm certain, now. I dreamed it."  _While a galaxy, two galaxies imploded_ , I reminded myself. I slammed my fists onto the table, making the mask next to me and papers in front of me jump. "A world died. Bromjunaar. Something at that place, that ruin, is going to end the world." I grabbed the green mask and stared into the odd visage. "An ancient city? An ancient people. Ancient age, long ago. Things stolen from Nord ruins – Saarthal, and this other one. And more. Three more? Something ancient was at Saarthal. Something important. I never told any of you, except Marcurio, about Yrsarald's dream, that Ulfric went into Yrsarald's dreams as a ghost and  _showed_  Yrsarald Saarthal, that room with the big glowing glass thing. Elodie said what was taken was powerful. Ulfric knows it is important. Ulfric hates the Thalmor. Onmund thinks the Thalmor wanted this  _thing_ ," I waved the mask around. "Thalmor!" I shouted probably too loudly. "The Thalmor want something old and powerful and it is all leading to this place, to Bromjunaar, to the end of this world."

The room full of mages became gravely quiet. Over two dozen eyes stared back at me, stunned. I turned to my left to see the little armored shit once again propped up against the wall, arms crossed, grinning. He agreed with me.

As I returned Onmund's smile with a sneer, the light in the room flickered, and an unseen force ripped the green mask from my hands and flung it against the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! I'm still on hiatus, an extended hiatus, while I work on my grad school papers. I'll only be writing in pieces here and there. I'll also try to write shorter chapters like this one. Shorter means more often.
> 
> Anyway… I'm back on extended hiatus after this posting. If you're looking for something to read, I suggest anything that I have favorited, or my other stories, or perhaps a book. I'm currently re-reading Freda Warrington's 'Aetherial' series.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Gylta - Valid  
> Fern - Proficiency  
> Vesekont - Embassy ("visitor office")  
> Tyden - Translations  
> Likant - Appearance/Resemblance ("like face")  
> Rexa - Operational  
> Methlimen - Associates  
> Methlimetur - Associated  
> Harstene – Breton ("High Rock-er", aka one who dwells on a High Rock; Bretons built their settlements on hills)  
> Grim - Shadow of the Night; Mask/Disguise  
> Truthun - Cult ("religion-law")  
> Ormra - Serpentine ("Labyrinthine" aka Labyrinthian)


	20. Forward

_6_ _th_ _of Second Seed, 4E 203_

_Whiterun Stormcloak Camp_

_First night en route to Ivarstead_

_It's raining. Cold for mid-spring. I have furs and this big lantern, but I feel chilled to the bone. Yrsarald, my portable radiator, is with the camp commander, whose name I forget except for his "war name", Head-Smasher. Wonder how he got that name…. Galmar and Calder are here too. I'm thankful for that, since both Galmar and Calder will be going back to Windhelm with Yrsa. Lots of muscles and sharp metal objects to protect him. The other soldiers have to stay here. "The truce may end tomorrow," Yrsarald reminded them. They would not be safe if they went home, since home for some of them is in enemy territory. Even the injured are still here in the healer's tent. Marcurio and I helped to heal them (Stormcloak medics are just that – medics; they do not use magic.) We gave the camp healer a couple bottles of healing potions, but some wounds are difficult beasts to tame…. One woman's shattered elbow will never be the same again._

_I met the soldiers. Not exactly the glamorous, Joan of Arc-esque parade that Galmar was likely hoping for, what I had trained in armor for (apparently my "presentation armor" isn't ready yet anyway). It was raining the entire time we traveled and when I arrived at the camp I smelled of horse and wet leather. Despite my two hoods – the cloth mage's hood that Stenvar sent me long ago and that of my new rain cloak – my hair was unflatteringly matted and frizzy, and smelled of wet dog. It still smells, and I suspect it will keep smelling that way until I get an opportunity to wash it. But, despite my uncomely, unsoldiery appearance, various stenches, and obvious status as a mage, I was well-received by the soldiers. I don't know if they genuinely liked me, or if they merely made nice-like for Yrsarald's sake. It doesn't really matter now, I suppose._

_My stomach is in knots still, wondering if that short Imperial, Tullius, will uphold the prolonged truce. I wonder if the Stormcloak troops that went to Markarth will be arrested as soon as the city is re-taken, just like Ulfric was. I am even angry and anxious FOR Eyleif, since Ralof volunteered to go to Markarth along with several others. I worry for him especially, since he was once nearly beheaded by the Imperials, and is wanted by the Thalmor. (One of the conditions of the truce was that no active Stormcloak soldier could be arrested or killed simply for being a Stormcloak). I think Eyleif was actually happy about Ralof leaving, though. Nord warrior-hero mentality, I guess. I am so not a Nord. If I was, I wouldn't be so goddamn cold. Even skinny Bird would be almost warm in this chilly weather._

_I felt very unexceptional while we traveled to the camp. I rode my sturdy horse the entire way, which was a very easy yet muddy journey. Galmar, Calder, and Ingjard walked half of the way, somehow keeping up with those of us on horses. Yrsarald couldn't walk long distances due to his bad leg and knee, and no one expected Wuunferth to leave the comfort of the back of the horse-drawn cart that Marc offered to drive, toting all of our belongings. While we rode, Yrsa explained to me that walking long distances is part of an active soldier's training, and that though I never saw it both Calder and Ingjard would have trained every day that we were in Whiterun, twice a day, morning and night. The sort of training they would have done at the palace would have been similar to what Yrsarald does at least every other day while at the palace, which involves among other things weapons training, stretching, and a whole lot of squatting while holding some sort of weight. Well, not a whole lot of squatting for Yrsa. Too painful to perform too many times. Instead, he does leg exercises while on his back. It works – his thighs are like tree trunks._

_I made up my mind today though. Tomorrow if the road is dry, I will walk for as long as I can stand it, and then get back on my horse when I'm tired. The journey to Riverwood will be long anyway, and I know there is no chance in hell that I'll be able to walk the entire way. But it will be good training for when Ingjard and I have to hike on foot up to High Hrothgar._

_Though I feel pretty confident about everything that we as a group have planned, I still fear running into Thalmor patrols that apparently wander the country, keeping the locals in check, reportedly arresting anyone they suspect of Talos worship. I don't know if I will be able to contain myself and NOT kill them on sight with a big ball of lightning or a fire rune. As a group we agreed that should we encounter any Thalmor, they are to be left alone unless they attack us first. Any patrols that go missing would arouse suspicion, and naturally, the primary suspect would be the Nords of Skyrim and, particularly, Stormcloak supporters and Talos worshippers. This plan of course goes along with what the Jarl and Mage councils decided._

_But there is the issue of me and Yrsa being "wanted" by the Thalmor… and the issue of the Thalmor knowing almost everyone I call a friend. They would recognize us, most likely. All of us. Onmund showed me after the meeting. Well, not so much showed me as handed me a stack of papers he was keeping secret and then walked off into the night. They had sketches of me, Yrsa, Marc, Bird, Ralof, and Ulfric. Though Marc's and Bird's thankfully look nothing like them, Yrsa's and mine are way too accurate. He and I talked privately about what to do if the Thalmor recognized any of us…. Of all possible things that could happen to us on the road, meeting a Thalmor agent tops the list of things that worry me._

_I am being hunted, but for what exactly I have no idea. Perhaps at the time the documents were last updated I was simply a person of interest to the Thalmor. Perhaps it is my assumed origin from the future that they are most interested in, or my accidental inclusion at Helgen, or perhaps my apparent immunity from being found and tracked by magic. I am different, an enigma, and they obviously don't like that. I am told that the Thalmor have curious minds, and much like scholars (or perhaps scientists?) seek to answer any questions set before them. Unlike scientists, however, they are angered and offended by things they don't understand. Back on Earth if I was proven to be some sort of magical being I would fear being locked up, strapped down, and studied by men in white robes. I worry a similar fate here would end far worse.… Savos tested my immunity to the Clear-Seeing spell, and sure enough the magic didn't work on me. He figured it related to my walking through the college wards unharmed, and to my being a Child of Akatosh, a magical creation. He also found it almost amusing that I am also blessed by Akatosh, that I am Dragonborn. He wondered if the two were interrelated, if I'm Dragonborn because I'm a Child of Akatosh. I wonder if Torug has a knack for magic, too._

_One confusing note from my documents was the mention of an informant named Ancano who was supposed to be at Winterhold. I never met anyone of that name. I suppose he left his "position" at the college before I got there. What worries me more is that there was a Thalmor informant at the college in the first place._

_But the most terrifying aspect of all is what we learned about Saarthal, and the other ruin, Ormra, the name of which, an adjective, means "serpent-like" but in reality is a euphemism for "maze-like" (this I figured out after an apparently aggravating discussion with Marc, who, bless his heart, always helps me figure out what Norren words mean.) Though there is no clear evidence that the Thalmor as a whole are involved, SOME Thalmor were definitely involved, and are responsible for the deaths at Saarthal, Ormra, and other ruins. They stole artifacts. Ancient artifacts of power. Artifacts that are assumed to be the tools of Magnus when he created the world. Whatever the Thalmor are doing with these tools is now threatening to destroy what they were once used to create._

. . . . . .

_Three days ago…_

The green mask was on the floor. The room went silent and then black, the candles snuffed out all at once. Immediately several mages sent up a blue-white Magelight spell and something more yellow that resembled candlelight. Some in attendance gasped and wondered aloud what was happening.

Then I felt a chill; sudden, violent and heavy, like ice water raining down on me. I shivered. I tried to command some candles to light but they wouldn't listen. Wuunferth grumbled something unintelligible and then demanded, "Show yourself, ghost!" as if he knew what was happening. And maybe he was right – maybe the chill was indeed caused by an angry or vengeful spirit. Ghosts were apparently commonplace now that the veils between worlds were thinning.

A deep rumble like guttural thunder sounded behind me. I turned, straining to see in the near-blackness who or what was there, but saw nothing. Several mages cast wards and other magic, perhaps dead-detection spells. I whispered " _Laas_ ," hoping to see a red fog behind me. Nothing.

"I see nothing," a woman confirmed, and ceased casting her dead-detection spell as I turned back to the table.

And then a whisper, incomprehensible, entered my mind. "I hear something," I muttered, frantically looking around the room. The chill grew deeper. Hairs on my neck and arms all stood. The room had been filled with energy.

" _The_ Grim _is the key to the beginning and the end."_

"What?" I whispered back, unsure of what was happening, or what was being said.

"What?" asked someone from across the table.

" _Cut from Her body, it has no name."_

 _What the fuck?_  I attempted to comprehend what the whispered ramblings meant.  _The 'grim' is the key to the beginning and the end_ , I repeated to myself.  _Cut from her body, it has no name_. I had absolutely no idea what to make of the words. But ' _grim'_ , I reminded myself, meant 'mask'.

The growl returned, and then the papers that had been dormant on the table suddenly filled the air and were allowed to flutter back down without hindrance. The candles all at once ignited with flames too high and the room became painfully bright. I closed my eyes against the ocular assault until the light dimmed and the redness seen through closed eyelids turned dark. Reluctantly my eyes opened, and I let myself take in my disheveled surroundings. In front of me lay the translated document titled "Ulfric Stormcloak". I looked up, aiming for Wuunferth across the table, but instead met the shimmering, white-lucent eyes of a dead Jarl.

. . . . . .

_I can't believe that that priest, Heimskr, the one always shouting in front of that Talos statue, was basically brainwashed by the Thalmor. Apparently what that man went through was similar to Ulfric's torture, except far less thorough. I'm no psychologist but I'll bet that's why Heimskr always rants about the same shit over and over and over again. Evil Thalmor, evil Imperials, evil elves. It was a bit overkill, but now it's obvious as to why. The priest was arrested by Whiterun guards and was taken to the palace prison. I don't know what will happen next. It isn't his fault that he was brainwashed. I hope that someone can help him._

_We couldn't believe our ears, hearing what was written about Ulfric and Heimskr. Though I and Wuunferth knew a bit about what Ulfric had gone through – Wuunferth more than me, naturally – everyone else in the room was shocked, some of them beyond breathing. One of the elven women had to leave the room for a while. There was a separate note that Onmund found with the original document about Ulfric. The note detailed particular acts of torture that a Thalmor member named Elenwen conducted, mentioning that the Thalmor could learn from her expertise…. I don't think I'll ever get those images out of my head. My mind kept going back to my senior year of high school, reading 'Edward II' by Marlowe. No fucking wonder Ulfric was a mess. But that was only the beginning for the poor man. Once they broke him, the re-education started. They did the same with Heimskr. Both men, tortured to the point of mental submission, were brainwashed into being radical Talos evangelists. It was apparently easy with them both, as Heimskr had always been in the service of Talos – an acolyte priest when captured. Ulfric simply accepted Talos as one of the nine gods, but as a Nord of Windhelm he revered Talos above all other gods._

_That's why Heimskr was allowed to preach in Whiterun without fear of being persecuted by the Thalmor. He was literally an unwitting, hapless Thalmor plant. And this is why Ulfric killed King Torygg, Elisif's husband. Ulfric's reshaped mind told him to do it, told him to kill whoever stood between him and Talos at whatever the cost. This action of course jump-started the civil war…. And this is also why Ulfric retook Markarth 30 years ago. Or at least part of the reason. He was promised that the city would be free to worship Talos once recaptured, and of course that didn't happen, so he was arrested for violating the peace treaty between the Aldmeri Dominion and the Empire, which for some reason involved the outlawing of Talos worship. Savos and that lady High Elf mage, whose name is Linaire, both agreed that the outlawing of Talos was likely due to the fact that the god had once been human, a sort of contamination to the other eight gods. Some High Elves alive today actually met and still remember Talos the man, Tiber Septim the Emperor. Linaire admitted that she didn't pray to Talos ever, but held no contempt for the man-god or his supplicants. The Thalmor, she explained, were extremists in this way._

. . . . . .

_Three days ago…_

"Ulfric's ghost?" the maybe-vampire mage, Sybille Stentor, scoffed. "Why would Ulfric of all people know—"

"The Thalmor," I blurted, interrupting Sybille. "Ulfric must have… tight connections in his mind to the Thalmor. Or perhaps the gods are allowing him to see things. Or perhaps his ghost is just… able to go around the world because of what is happening. I don't know, but he  _knows_. He has been in Yrsarald's dreams, and mine too, I think. Why Ulfric? I don't know. But  _why Ulfric_  is the wrong question. We need to know how the separation between the worlds is thinning."

"It is because the Eye is open," Elodie said quickly, softly. Everyone turned to gaze at the woman. "The Eye of Magnus, and his Staff as well, have been found by the Thalmor, and are being used, breaking the separation between Mundus, Aetherius, and Oblivion."

Amidst the sudden silence of the gathered mages, Elodie stood, for whatever reason appearing shameful.

"Why are we only learning of this now!?" asked one of the apprentice mages.

"Because the matter was being handled." The curtness of Farengar, Balgruuf's court mage, often felt hurtful even when I was not its recipient.

"I know the mask of which Ulfric speaks," Elodie quietly declared. "The mask is made of wood, not stone or metal. They – the Psijics – knew it was missing from its rightful place. The wood, 'cut from Her body', is the peel of a tree,  _Kynareth's_  tree, Eldergleam."

Gasps came from around the room, all from Nords. Apparently this was new information, to everyone.

"What? Eldergleam…." A man, the apprentice of the woman I thought was a vampire, creased his brow. "Not possible."

"Possible," Elodie corrected the man. "Unlike the other masks," she paused to raise her hand toward the green mask, and it flew towards her with startling speed. She too knew the spell to perform telekinetic tricks. "Unlike the others, the wooden mask belonged to no priest. The wooden mask was a gift of Kynareth to her children, intended as a weapon against their  _kinen_ , but the mask was lost, thought stolen. This mask," she indicated the one in her hand, "and other masks like it are as  _nindalafa_ as the men who wore them and the dragons who gifted them unto those men. The wooden mask, too, is said to be  _nindalafa_ , and unable to be cut by metal, burned, or otherwise destroyed. We have been trying to find the wooden mask," Elodie continued, "but, like the other artifacts, it is hidden from us."

. . . . . .

_How can a wooden mask of all things enable someone to be transported back and forth through time? "The key to the beginning and the end," Ulfric's ghost said. Elodie knew exactly what he meant. The mask was made millennia ago, sometime during what people call the Dragon War. Alduin, the big black dragon from Helgen, at that time was worshipped by humans as a god! A GOD! I can understand it… I suppose…. Back then I'm told people worshipped the land and its creatures, and what are dragons but huge, dominating creatures? The mask was made as a weapon, Elodie said, to help humankind against the dragons and dragon priests (who were humans that served dragons, not dragons that acted as priests….) The mask is currently being used by the Thalmor to travel between this time and the time of the Dragon War._

_The Psijics knew all this. They told Elodie all this. The Psijics themselves hop to and fro in time and space, something Elodie confided in me later that she too could now do. She is being trained in their ways, she admitted. They are watchers, not warriors. They learn, not do. Elodie also called them the "keepers of knowledge and order". But in this case they had to interfere, Elodie said. They saved her life, because Elodie needed to save the world._

_While Elodie was unconscious in Saarthal, her mind was with the Psijics. They took her consciousness to their land, Artaeum, and told her all that they knew about what was happening to the world, and all that she must do to save it. But, she had to keep most of the information to herself, lest the populous explode in hysteria. The Psijics explained to her that the people who attacked the ruin were members of the Thalmor. They didn't differentiate between active members or not. The large, powerful object that had been stolen from Saarthal was called the Eye of Magnus. The artifact stolen from another ruin, Ormra, was called the Staff of Magnus. They were said to be relics of when Magnus helped form this world, Mundus – the tools of the architect. It was explained to Elodie that the "finger" controlled the "eye", and that the "eye" was able to see all of Creation as well as alter it, if one knew how. "An Eye open for too long," Elodie said to the mages at the late-night meeting, "viewing all the different worlds, damages the separation between them. The artifacts cannot be possessed by mortals, as mortals will never understand them. The artifacts must be found."_

_Apparently the Aldmeri Dominion was once in possession of the Staff of Magnus, long ago, in the 2_ _nd_ _Era, but it later disappeared sometime in the 3_ _rd_ _, and no one had seen or heard of it again until now. The Thalmor tracked it down after centuries of research and reconnaissance and finally found it at Ormra. Since High Elves live for at least 1,000 years, time is a luxury that they definitely have, and apparently a millennium is nothing to a High Elf with an plan…. The Psijics also explained to Elodie that the Eye of Magnus had been locked safe behind an extremely powerful ward in Saarthal that was broken by the Staff. The Thalmor now have these artifacts hidden somewhere._

_Furthermore, these particular Thalmor or ALL Thalmor are after dragon masks, powerful and ancient things that are, apparently, immortal. "Nindalafa tholeten". Immortal artifacts…. Onmund found the one green mask when he captured a Thalmor agent named Valmir at a ruin called Forelhost. Before Onmund killed Valmir, the High Elf revealed to Onmund that he and his associates were collecting the masks, but he never revealed the names of the associates._

_The beginning and the end. Beginning: when the mask was made, millennia ago, during the Dragon War. The "age of elves", the Merethic Era, the era that came before the First (we're now in the Fourth). End: now, today, during Alduin's reappearance, during the Dragonborn's appearance(s). But the Thalmor are not the cause of Alduin's reappearance. This, apparently, was fated to happen. The "Prophecy of the Dragonborn" they called it._

_Wars and disasters worldwide here on Nirn destroyed what the mages kept calling towers, even if some of the towers were actually mountains. These towers apparently hold the sky above the earth, metaphysically speaking, and keep existence… well, existing. The final tower to fall was the mountain on which High Hrothgar sits. Some called it the Snow Tower and others the Throat of the World. Apparently it is broken because of the civil war... but I'm not sure how. When the war really "took off", when Ulfric killed Torygg, is about when Alduin returned, when the world was doomed to end should the Dragonborn not kill the "World-Eater". But I have to remind myself that correlation does not equal causation. The timing, I'm sure, is simply a coincidence, and the civil war was used to prophesize the time when Alduin would return and nothing more. The world cannot end because of a war. They don't even have guns, ffs. And what's more, the mountain that I will hike up is still very much standing, so why it is "broken"… I don't know. I suppose the whole prophesy like most prophesies is just one big metaphor and can't be taken literally._

_But Alduin isn't nearly as worrisome to me as the Thalmor. At the meeting between mages and Jarls, we all had to ask ourselves: What are the Thalmor doing with a key that unlocks time? The answer was the main reason for the truce._

. . . . . .

_Three days ago…_

It must have been midnight, or some time after. I wished the people of Skyrim kept time, but I never saw anything like a sundial. The sky had grown cloudy, and I couldn't even rely on the position of the moon to guess at the hour, or rather, how long I had to sleep before the sun rose and the mages were to meet in the palace.

I told Marcurio that I wanted to walk back to the palace on my own. I needed to think, to process all the horrors we had discussed at the late-night meeting. In truth, Marcurio was likely in need of  _my_  company, someone he could lean on, be held by, find comfort with, but he said he would seek out Brelyna at the inn. He wasn't supposed to, but he was going to tell her everything the Mage's Council had talked about. I wasn't about to stop him. I knew that telling him what was written about me by the Thalmor was a mistake; I knew this, and yet I couldn't not tell him. He and Bird were both named as my acquaintances, which meant both of them were in moderate danger. I told him that Yrsarald was given 'highest priority', and that is why I had freaked out a little at the meeting while reading my documents. The documents were old, however. They mentioned nothing about Ulfric's death or Yrsarald's Jarlship, or even my status as Dragonborn. I was comforted by the assumption that Yrsarald could not, would not be arrested in his own city, but until he was safe behind stone walls I knew I would worry for him.

I plodded into the guestroom with steps heavier than usual. The wooden floor creaked, and immediately Yrsarald stirred. Aside from the dimming Magelight I had cast to light my way to the palace, I could barely see. I heard Yrsarald sniff the air.

"You're back," he decided without turning to me, but soon stretched his arms over his head and yawned before sitting up. I took out the various papers from my robe pocket and slipped them inside my journal on the small desk. The robe weighed down on me like metal armor and I groaned with relief when the burden was removed. Wood creaked behind me and I spun around, ready to smack away whatever had made the sound. But the only figure in the room was Yrsarald's shadowy bulk, sitting on the edge of our mattress on the floor. His shoulders shook as he chuckled. "What is wrong with you?"

My hands clutched my biceps, arms crossed over my unrobed, bound chest. Yrsarald stood from the mattress. His palms warmed the skin of my shoulders.

"Deborah?"

"I saw him."

"Hm? Saw who?"

I closed my eyes to the man's shadow and willed whatever candles were in the room to ignite. I saw red through my eyelids and knew the spell had worked.

Yrsarald grunted. "I am still not used to that." He pressed his thumb to my chin, and his fingers lifted my face to meet his. "Who did you see?"

I had hoped from my pained expression that Yrsarald would simply understand, but to his credit, I could have been upset about seeing any given number of men. My lips parted and closed again, for whatever reason failing to form the correct phoneme. Yrsarald's eyes were tired. I immediately knew that I should have let him sleep.  _Too late._  I took a deep breath, and as I exhaled, I pushed out his name. "Ulfric." I inhaled again, chest suddenly looser. "I saw Ulfric. I saw his ghost."

Yrsarald's eyes went from tired to shocked to something I couldn't read. "At the meeting?"

I nodded. "He…," I breathed as deep as my anxiety would allow. "It was cold. He… he was angry, I think. It's true… what stories in my world say, say about ghosts. Ghosts get strong when angry. They make the air cold, too cold." Again my mouth tried to form the correct sound for what I wanted to say, but the air caught in my chest. Yrsarald's emotional eyes were glued to mine, pleading for me to continue. "There was this—" I forgot the word for 'mask', and shook my head at my own tired ignorance, "—metal… face…. I think someone called it a dragon face but… no, that isn't right. Ulfric hit it from my hands and it fell to the floor. The candles went out. I heard his voice, Yrsa. He was still invisible when he whispered to me about a key that unlocked time. That was all he said before the candle flames came back, and that's when he appeared. He was white. Bright white."

My partner stared past me, processing. "He is still a ghost."

"Savos, the Arch-Mage, said he looked like ghosts from Aetherius. I suppose he has seen others…. They think he's in Sovngarde."

"Oh." Yrsarald was frowning, deeply, even after what I thought would have been happy news. Ulfric wasn't trapped in some otherworld, he was likely in Nord Heaven. Literally. Yrsarald sighed, and pulled me close to him. "What do you suppose he meant, about a key that unlocked time?"

I pushed my hands back around Yrsarald's neck and pivoted his face to meet mine. He appeared only somewhat receptive. "Yrsa, I don't know if I am supposed to tell you." I looked away, briefly. "I don't think I am…." I returned my gaze to my partner. "The mages are going to suggest a full truce tomorrow. A complete, long truce until the dragons, undead, and the Thalmor are no longer a problem."

"Thalmor?"

. . . . . .

_The Thalmor are likely trying to change the outcome of the ancient Dragon War, a time when humans became enslaved by dragon-serving priests. Perhaps, as Elodie suspected, they are even trying to manipulate the time portal, using the ancient artifacts so that they might go back even further in time, to before humans even existed. High Elves were the "elder race" apparently, and even thought of themselves as descendants of the gods. Linaire confirmed this belief of divine origin, but said it was not a common desire of High Elves, at least those that she knew, to want a world without humans. Elodie's father, a High Elf who married a human, is very much proof of this._

_As if the possibility that the Thalmor wanted to exterminate humans wasn't enough information to get the mages and Jarls riled up and hateful toward the Thalmor, the end note of Ulfric's documents was the_ coup de grâce  _for anyone's doubts. I will never, ever forget the last sentences of that damn note._

_As best I can translate…_

" _The obvious conclusion is that whoever is the cause of the dragons also is_ _interested in continuing the war_ _, but we should not assume therefore that_ _their goals are like our own_ _._ _A Stormcloak victory is ALSO to be avoided_ _, however."_

_When at the mage's meeting Wuunferth read aloud this last bit of Ulfric's document, Linaire became visibly upset. I suppose I held a small bit of anxiety toward High Elves, even after knowing some at the college (who were mostly lovely people, though Faralda is a – well, not great), but after watching Linaire it became immediately obvious that my anxieties were unfounded and rooted in my relationship with the Stormcloaks and Ulfric. I had become a bit racist toward High Elves. I feel sick, about my prejudices, but also about what these realizations really mean._

_The Thalmor are egging on the civil war in Skyrim to serve as a distraction for their true intentions. Even Tullius paled when the truth was revealed._

Nerves got the best of me again and I set down my quill and journal. I lay back on my furs and stared at the dimly lit tent roof. The rain pattered continuously. After a while, it sounded like static.

Yrsarald came in after not too long. "Still awake?"

I grunted faintly in response, still staring at the tent roof.

"We will break camp before dawn tomorrow. Long day ahead of us to get to Riverwood, even with the horses." I listened to my partner remove his boots and armored tunic. "How are your thighs, by the way?"

I turned to see Yrsarald grinning. His beard, illuminated by the lantern, made his smile appear as if it was surrounded by a circle of fire. Fire beard. "That was not my first time on a horse, Yrsa."

He smiled and nodded before inching backward toward his own bedroll. "Does Snowflake ride well?"

Snowflake. ' _Molisneis'_ in Norren. 'Little Snow Piece'. She was Nafrik's mare, a beautiful white animal with a dark muzzle and blue eyes. She had a thing for eating pine needles…. "She does. I like the way riding her feels, not like the horses I rode in my world." Fjalar, the other Stormcloak that died at the fortress, had a chubby stallion, Potato. He was a bit hard to handle, and was given to Ingjard. Thankfully, she had no problem with the mini-Clydesdale lookalike. "Snowflake is easy and calm. And she does not make me bounce."

I expected Yrsarald to again be grinning like a teenager, thinking about my body parts bouncing up and down, but he wasn't. He was just nodding. "Good. The horses can be stabled at Ivarstead while you are up the mountain. It is apparently what they do for all  _ravundiniken._ "

I still wasn't quite sure what that word meant.  _'Ravundinik'._ Traveler, supplicant, pilgrim… something like that. "Yes. I remember. Balgruuf told me."

More nodding. He was no longer looking at me, but instead was deeply concentrated on his left thumbnail.

"Yrsa…."

Grunt.

I shifted closer to him, leaving my fur blanket behind. My hands snuck beneath his linen undershirt and inched upward, finding warmth against his fuzzy flesh. I leaned further into the man and kissed the side of his neck, his beard, his lips. I pulled back to gaze at him. I read the man so well, now. He was tired, fearful, and stressed. I thought all or at least most of his worries would lighten with the truce, but I should have known better. With the civil war paused, Yrsarald had more time to worry about other things, like his city, dragons, the Thalmor, and me.

I slid my hands out from under his shirt and curled up next to him, ear pressed to his chest.  _Thump, thump. Thump, thump._ The rain joined in on the beat. I quickly fell asleep.

. . . . . .

_Three days ago…_

"'Open Eye, Pointed Finger'," I repeated the words from my dream to Yrsarald, words that finally made sense. "Elodie said that the eye and finger, or staff had been taken from ruins, but she does not know where they are now. They are hidden from magic  _by_ magic, just as I am hidden from magic, and why I can walk through wards…. Elodie needs to find them soon, or…," I swallowed hard. "She said if she does not, then the world of humans may end."

"End!?"

"That is what the Psijics told her. That is what I saw in my dream, I think – a world dying. That is why we are seeing ghosts, why magic is stronger, why there are undead people…. Something is letting too much magic from both Aetherius and Oblivion into this world. Elodie says that the problems began sometime before now, a few years ago, about when I came…. Portals opened then. Sometime before that, the ruin Ormra was attacked and the staff taken from there. Some also think that these problems accompany the dragons that are here, now, but we can't understand why. The Eye and the Staff, they have something to do with all of this, and they were taken by people who were or are with the Thalmor. Yrsa, the Thalmor want this war between Stormcloaks and Imperials to go on forever. They want this country weak from war, and perhaps destroyed. Ulfric agrees."

"He agrees?"

"When I said that I thought the Thalmor were doing something bad, that is when Ulfric's ghost hit the metal face from my hand. And after his ghost left, Wuunferth read to us what was said in the papers the Thalmor kept about him. He was tortured, and while he was captured they made him a little crazy, crazy about Talos and keeping Skyrim…," I forgot the word that had been used during the meeting that meant something like 'pure'. "The Thalmor made Ulfric think many things. He was so young…. He became strongly voiced for Talos and a Skyrim for Nords only. And they wrote that they want the war to continue. The Thalmor put words into Ulfric's mind, and they also wrote that he killed that king because of this."

"Torygg?"

"Yes, him. Wuunferth has the papers. He will bring them tomorrow."

Yrsarald scratched his head, turned, and began to pace slowly in front of me in silent contemplation.

"We should sleep, Yrsa," I suggested quietly, hoping he'd let everything go until morning. I was exhausted. "I can use my calming spell, if you need it."

Pace. Pace. Pace. "Mm, maybe." He nodded a few times. "Maybe."

I rubbed my eyes and sighed before walking over to the washbasin. Set beside it were our toothbrushes. Unlike the outlaws who used the frayed ends of twigs, people in towns used bone-and-horsehair brushes to clean their mouths. The soap used with the brushes was something like a thick, refreshing and sudsing tea that did not taste like soap, but rather like a pleasant plant-based substance. It wasn't fluoride and it wasn't minty, but it was something, and I had yet to suffer any toothaches. I was mid-stroke with my toothbrush when Yrsarald finally spoke again.

"Why are you not more upset about this?"

I stared at my partner, sudsy mouth partially open. "About what? The Thalmor?"

Yrsarald walked over to me. "You just told me that the world  _of humans_ may be  _ending!_ "

Brush. Brush. Turn. Spit. "Elodie will find the artifacts. Everything will be fine."

"You cannot know that."

"Yes, I can!" I had shouted with a mouthful of suds, and turned to spit and rinse before I continued. "I have to think like this, Yrsa. I have to believe that the gods stole my soul from my world and brought me here to help save a world, not to watch it die. Meridia  _told_  me I would help save the world. Everything is going to be fine, because it has to be. It  _has to be_. Elodie will help the Psijics find the artifacts. The Thalmor will not destroy the world. Necromancers will not destroy the world. Dragons will not destroy the world." I put down my toothbrush and stared into the washbasin, at my wavering reflection. "I  _have_  to think this way. If I do not, I will cry, and never stop crying!" I felt Yrsarald's warmth behind me, his hands cupping my shoulders, and I immediately calmed. "I will go to High Hrothgar. I will learn what I must learn. I will kill necromancers and the undead and help Elodie find the artifacts if she still needs my help. I will find and kill Torug. And then, when all of that is finished, I will live my life with you, even if that life means fighting in a war against the Aldmeri Dominion." I gripped the brim of the basin tightly, and snarled at the woman looking back at me. "I was given a second life, and I will live it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised shorter chapters, but I wanted to write one chapter per journal entry (per travel day) as Deborah travels to Ivarstead. Normal chapter organization will follow once she reaches there.
> 
> Oh, and, well, did anyone see this whole thing with the Thalmor coming?
> 
> Note about canon lore, etc: lots of this story, this main plot, is now branching off from where canon lore ends. Also, the lore within is limited and may be at times not fully recognizing the extent of information available, as Deborah is not omniscient and isn't exactly in the presence of a historian. Further, Khajiit of Elsweyr and Bosmer of Valenwood are allied with the Dominion, the former by choice and the latter by… forced choice. But, Deborah again doesn't really know this.
> 
> If you have any questions about what is canon and what is my imagination/conclusions, feel free to ask.
> 
> Grim - Mask  
> Ormra - Serpentine ("Labyrinthine" aka Labyrinthian)  
> Kinen – Masters  
> Nindalafa – immortal  
> Molisneis - Snowflake ("piece little snow")  
> Ravundinik - Pilgrim


	21. From the Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers! Thank you all for sticking with me as I fight against myself to finish chapters like this. What can I say - politics aren't my thing. That said, there is so much going on in this chapter that you might want to pay extra attention, or perhaps read twice. (With the hiatus, you'll have time! heh) I only made it so long because I wanted to keep each chapter to one travel day with flashbacks intermixed. In any case, as before, this is the point in the lore where I branch off from canon into my own imagination. Also, these recent chapters are really setting the stage for the remainder of not just Book 2, but for future plotlines. So, that's why it was important for me to take so long to perfect it. Anyway... happy reading!
> 
> Warning: Mention of the Holocaust and of rape.

_7_ _th_ _of Second Seed, 4E 203_

_Ruins of Riverwood_

_Second night en route to Ivarstead_

_The inn and the blacksmith's shop are the only buildings still standing in this wonderful town. I cried when I saw the ashen ruins, but thankfully had no encounters with any dead bodies. I forced myself to take it all in. Nothing of use is left, everything since taken by looters or squatters. But the inn is big enough to house all seven of us and we are thankfully spending a night indoors, away from the constant downpour of rain. I even got to take a (cold) bath in the basement, but with Yrsarald thankfully there to provide some heat (the small hearth in the bathing room also helped). The short relief from company was not wasted between us, either. Thank god. I was able to take my mind off all my stress for a while._

_At the big meeting, both commanders, Rikke and Galmar, admitted that the amount of soldiers that deserted their posts was staggering. Apparently there had been too many instances of dragon attacks at forts (mainly to steal their livestock), but the main reason cited for desertion is the undead. Too many soldiers rose from the dead only to have to be decapitated by their own brothers and sisters, as Galmar put it. There is a strong superstition among Nords and Imperials alike, I learned, that when the dead rise, it means Arkay is angry, because when there is war too many people die without proper funeral proceedings. Without proper funeral proceedings, the soul can't enter Aetherius or Oblivion or any other realm, or at least won't stay there. But this hadn't happened during the Great War, something Wuunferth pointed out. The main cause of the undead problem, the mages all agreed, was the thinning of the veils between worlds, but they still agreed that Arkay was likely angry. Andurs, the Priest of Arkay in Whiterun, was brought in on the meeting that afternoon to speak to the matter. Through him we heard the voice of the god, and what he said gave me the creeps. Paraphrasing, as best I understood him, Andurs/Arkay said that "everything was as it should be" and that "souls walk Mundus to avoid the Destroyer". He added that "more deaths confirm the end". Andurs then looked directly at me and said, "Yours will be a false victory." I have no idea what that means. I asked Andurs what Arkay meant, but the god had already left the priest's mind. No one at the meeting knew what his last words meant either, but they certainly understood to the previous. He meant that the dead were walking for a reason, and that more people dying will mean our destruction. This new knowledge was argued as another reason to call a truce. Alduin, the ancient black dragon, was in Aetherius or Oblivion, eating the souls of the dead._

"You're writing a lot," Yrsarald noted, peeking over my shoulder. His arm draped around my shoulders. We were sitting, like the others, in the main hall of the dilapidated inn. The central, open hearth was lit. I was gloriously warm, even if several holes in the roof let some rain in, and heat, out. "What's the matter?"

I set my journal and quill down on the dining table. "I keep thinking about what Andurs… Arkay said. About the undead, and a false victory."

"And what do you think he meant?"

"I can't know. Meridia will not answer me. I am on my own. Did he mean a false victory against the undead? Was he truly speaking to me? Perhaps he meant all of us. Perhaps all of us will have a false victory over someone, or something." I turned to Yrsarald. "And do you think it's true, what they said at the meeting about the 'Destroyer' – that Arkay meant that black dragon called Alduin? The 'world-eater'?"

Yrsarald sighed through his nose and held me close. "It is not impossible. Dragons were mere legends until…. Well, if all dragons are real, then why not the World-Eater? I have heard the songs, but I never thought they were about a real dragon. It makes me wonder how many other stories I have heard are true, or were once true." Yrsarald stood from the table, kissed my temple, and pressed both hands to my shoulders. "I'm going to find a bed." He kissed the top of my head. I picked up my quill.

_Elodie is right now traveling to Windhelm and then Winterhold with Stenvar, Jenassa, and Brelyna with her. She said that she was charged by these Psijic people to create an army of hunters. She is supposed to recruit mages, and Stenvar is supposed to recruit warriors. I didn't think much of this at first, but now I'm wondering if this is what Meridia meant by Stenvar being my greatest ally. Why him and not Elodie, I have no idea. But Elodie says that the army will be ready in three months. I don't know what that means, I mean, how she knows this. But she said that I should leave High Hrothgar after three months and go directly to Meridia's temple. I have no reason not to do what she says._

_Before our two groups parted ways at the Whiterun stables, Brey and I had some time to ourselves to chat. Apparently love works really fast sometimes, because she said that she's completely in love with Jenassa, and claims that Jenassa is infatuated with her (something Stenvar made note of before then.) I personally would never have guessed those two would even get along as friends. Brey is the cutest, sweetest person I've ever met (maybe even more so than Yrsa!) and Jenassa is… dark. Not evil, just dark. Mysterious. But, to hear Brelyna talk about her, you'd think Jenassa was only hard on the outside, and all gooey (at least for Brey) on the inside. I'm so ecstatically happy for my friend. Even better, the two of them will be traveling together. Lucky._

_Aside from some troops going to Markarth to try and gain back the city, other troops are off to Ormra, the ruin where Bromjunaar was. Is. Some of the apprentice mages are going as well. Joining the cohort was strictly voluntary, as no one has any clue what awaits them there. I was told that Onmund is going as well, and that he has continual help from_ Smolakap _, or "Sanguine" as I now think of him. I wanted to join them, but I knew I had to go to High Hrothgar immediately. I feel it in my bones. I need to learn what it means to be Dragonborn other than hurting my throat from shouting foreign words._

. . . . . .

_Three days ago…_

Elodie had been explaining certain things to the Jarls while the documents were passed around, particulars about the Psijics, the Eye and Staff, and lastly, The Summoner. "The Summoner as the Thalmor call her is believed to be a former member of the Psijic Order. Altmer, female, hundreds of years old. Not many women are accepted into the Order, but there are some clues that she either was once part of the Psijics or has somehow taught herself to use the same powers as they do. First, there is her name, her title. The Summoner."

 _Bjothare_ , she was called. The name made sense. The woman had been summoning, calling to her fortress a bunch of undead people. The Summoner. The Caller. Unlikely that it was her true name, but it wasn't impossible.

"The Psijics have a power," Elodie continued, "not a spell but an ability, that they call 'The Summoning'."  _Bjotharig._  "It is nothing more than the ability to communicate with other  _roniren_  by means of  _fjarskinun_ , or, speaking within the mind only and being heard by someone else. It is possible that The Summoner used this power to call to undead individuals from far away."

"I'm sorry," Siddgeir interrupted, "did you just say that these  _roniren_  can communicate with each other silently, within their minds?"

Elodie turned, stared, and blinked once at the Jarl. "Yes, that is what I said."

Siddgeir looked around to the other Jarls. "Am I the only one that is somewhat worried about this news?"

The room went silent for a short while, but Elodie quickly recommenced speaking about The Summoner. "Deborah and others, as well as the Thalmor, think that The Summoner can also fast-travel, something that even I can do now, and of course the other Psijics can, too." Elodie didn't give the crowd a chance to question her about her apparent ability to teleport – at least I thought that is what she meant by 'fast travel'. "The question of her connection to the Psijics is not what is important, however. At least, this is not of our concern. The Order will look into this matter. What we need to understand  _now_  is why The Summoner was interested in Saarthal, why she was experimenting on the undead, and if she is connected to those who have the Eye of Magnus. If she herself is wanted by the Thalmor, it may be that those who have the Eye and the Staff are no longer connected to the Thalmor. As for the man who was sent to collect dragon masks, well, he may very well be connected to the Thalmor, and that is a very big concern." Elodie made sure everyone recalled that the Thalmor, using the masks, were also traveling back in time to the Elven Age, something devious in its own right. "Until we have a solid answer, I propose this  _borga_  war be put on hold."

When Elodie finished, I stood. "I have something to say," I announced, loudly, asserting my intention to be heard. I had already told Yrsarald what I was about to say to the rest of those in attendance; he encouraged the disclosure of the information, despite that doing so would expose my true identity to everyone.

I opened with who I was, how I came to be in Skyrim, and what I did as a profession in my old life. After the brief introduction, wishing to avoid questions, I quickly segued into what I knew about my world's second 'Great War'. "I am not the best scholar for this time in history, not at all, but everyone knows what happened. Everyone learns about it. The war ended… more than fifty years ago – seventy, I think – and it ended in a good way. If it had ended in a bad way, I may not have ever been born, because my mother might have been arrested and killed, just as her father's family was arrested and killed during the war."

I couldn't think of an accurate way to describe the Nazis and their overall organization, so I simplified and used terms and situations my audience might have better comprehended. "There was one country, one army led by one man, and they wanted to do several things. One, everyone should worship their god and no other god. They wanted to kill  _every person_  who did not worship their god." It was a lot easier than trying to explain the differences between Christianity and Judaism and the reasons behind the purge, which technically was not a genocide. "Two, they wanted to kill people who did not look like them, because they were less… eh… like the gods." Again, I had forgotten the word for 'pure'. "Three, they wanted to kill men who loved men, instead of women. Probably women who loved women, too. Only because anything other than one man and one woman was seen as evil and against their god. By doing these three things, this man, his army, wanted to take over the world, and begin an empire that he said would have lasted one thousand years.

"To make these three things happen, this man and his army put everyone they wanted to be dead – to no longer make children, anyway – into camps with fences, used them as slaves or for experiments, or just killed them or let them starve. Because, they believed, that those people they wanted dead were lower than they were, not good enough to live on their planet. They also only wanted people born in their country to stay there – anyone not from their land, they wanted to push out." I turned briefly to Yrsarald and shot him a stern look. He knew why.

I continued. "Because my mother's family believed in a different god, they and people like them were hunted. Many, so many were killed. My mother's father escaped that country and found freedom, but…," I counted in my mind, "six hundred sets of ten thousand people died in the war, and that does not include the soldiers. I think the whole amount of people who died was ten sets of  _that_ number." I expected the gasps from the audience. Considering the population of Skyrim's biggest cities were apparently in the low thousands, I wondered if they even had a word for 'million'. I continued. "Do not worry, though, there are still more people than we can feed in my world. And the war ended well, so people like my mother's family still live today, in my world.

"The reason I say all of this to all of you now, I hope, is obvious. The Thalmor want this land, and other lands of the Empire. They attacked once, and all of you agree that they will attach again. Also, the Thalmor, or people who were once Thalmor, are doing something to this world with ancient artifacts, and going back in time. Add this to their documents – torture, and their hope that this war in Skyrim does not end…. I have thought about this, what it means, and I think these Thalmor or  _all_  Thalmor wish to do something to  _this_  world. They want to change it, or perhaps destroy it. The question is  _why_  they want the war in Skyrim to continue. Is it only because it is distracting? If Onmund had never found those documents, we would never be talking about the Thalmor. We would be talking about dragons and the undead. That is what the Thalmor want, I think.

"And, for what Ulfric wanted, it is now clear from the Thalmor document that his mind was shaped by the torture. The Thalmor made him think what they wanted him to think. They used him, and he did what they hoped he would do. He began a rebellion. He helped to do two things – distract everyone from what the Thalmor are doing with the artifacts, and make this country weak by fighting with itself." I quickly tried to recall the word for 'civil'.  _B… b… borga._  "Civil wars always make a country weak. I know this from the history of my own world. If the civil war in Skyrim continues longer, I promise you the Thalmor will be waiting like a blocked river to flood the land. Instead of walking in and killing all people in Skyrim, like that army in my world did, they are hoping we kill ourselves. This is smart, because your Great War ended only thirty years ago. I am sure everyone is still hurting from this, the Thalmor too.

"I am not a military advisor. I am not a soldier. But I do know that the only way that the Great War was won in my world was because many countries joined together to make one big army. They did  _not_ make one empire, they did not  _need_  an empire, only a big army. They only joined for a short time with the hope of stopping this evil army, killing this one man. After the war, these countries remained friends, but separated, and no big war has happened since.

"I live here now. I am part of Skyrim. I do not want to see it burn. My fear, my deep fear, is that the Imperials and Stormcloaks will continue to kill each other because one side still believes an  _empire_  is necessary – as Tullius has said, necessary to fight the Thalmor and the Dominion. In my world,  _EVERY_ empire that ever was made is now  _gone._  There are only countries. Some are joined very strongly, sister countries, but there are no  _empires,_ no  _emperors._ Yes, there are smaller wars still fought, but none like in history when empires tried to rule many countries." I neglected to mention that some people cited an 'American Empire'. It wasn't worth the effort.

"You may not want to listen to me, and I will understand if you do not, but I am telling you, an empire of forever-joined countries is  _not_  necessary, and it is obvious that holding onto something that is already falling away only ends in unnecessary death, and distraction from other parts of the empire. I wonder, Tullius," I looked to him, "how safe is Cyrodiil, with part of its army here in Skyrim?" I turned away, and shifted my gaze to everyone, in turn. "A short agreement is the only thing needed to win a war. I do not think the Imperials or the Stormcloaks need to surrender. I think both sides need to  _stop_. Just  _stop_. Think. Ask yourself, 'who is the true enemy?' Thalmor. Forsworn. Dragons. Undead…. After, in the future, maybe everyone  _will_  want an empire. Maybe not. If yes, make a  _new_  empire with  _new_  agreements. Time flies forward and the minds of people change. Anyone who refuses to change with time will be left behind.  _That_  is one thing I  _do_  have knowledge about. It is a lesson from my world. And another… if we do not learn from the past, we will repeat it. When I saw a book that The Summoner had in the fortress, it wrote about the… Ayleids. The ancient Ayleids had human slaves. The Summoner and her necromancers were trying to learn from vampires how make humans thoughtless slaves. This reminded me of the second lesson from my world. What if the past is coming back, in many ways? The Thalmor will attack again, another day, you all say. What will you do differently that time, so that you win?"

I sat down and immediately poured myself a gobletful of wine. For a while, I avoided eye contact with everyone save Marcurio, who stood directly in front of me away from the table. Next to him, Wuunferth was smirking.

I didn't want to know what Yrsarald was thinking, let alone Galmar, Elisif, or Tullius. I finished my wine and ate a hunk of bread before looking to my side to Yrsarald. He wasn't frowning, but he wasn't beaming with pride either. Granted my speech may have been a bit preachy, 'this is how  _we_  do it', but I had to say my piece. I knew it was good advice. Perhaps not realistic, but at the very least it was  _accurate_ , and at least in my mind  _idealistic_  advice. Finally, I felt confident enough to glance across the table down to Tullius, the commander of the Imperial Army in Skyrim.

His head bobbed slowly up and down as he re-read some of the documents that Onmund had given to us. Tullius, who had leathery, sun-beaten tanned skin a shade lighter than Marcurio's, became more pale the longer he read.

I supposed it was bad enough that the Mage's Council had confirmed the existence of a teleporting super-necromancer called The Summoner who was linked to other necromancers and perhaps to artifacts that were possibly unmaking the world. It was even bad enough that dragons were essentially wreaking havoc across Skyrim, eastern Hammer-Fell and High Rock, and northern Cyrodiil, all areas that bordered Skyrim. When we passed on proof to the Jarl's Council and to Tullius and Galmar that the Thalmor were hoping to perpetuate the civil war, I had watched as Tullius visibly lost all previous resolve. Even Elisif, his main supporter, froze in her seat after that news, and after my speech was no less relaxed. All I knew was that I was infinitely thankful that no Thalmor representative was attending the meeting.

A paper in hand, Tullius quickly pushed himself to his feet, tipping over his empty goblet. He slowly left the vicinity of the long table and began to walk around, processing the information. A moment later, he turned to look at his second-in-command, a middle-aged woman named Rikke. She fought in the Great War with Yrsarald and the others. The woman made no expression to her general. I watched as Tullius then turned to Yrsarald and Galmar. No one spoke. No one moved. Tullius's gaze returned to the paper and he continued to walk, slowly.

He routed back to the table, but stood at the foot, looking down the length at all in attendance. "I believe that…," he spoke in his odd accent, "the matter of the Thalmor is indeed deserving of more investigation. Until the matter is closed, until the dragons are stopped, until my men no longer have to remove the heads of their risen brothers, it might be best for everyone if a truce is preserved. And, as I speak for the Empire, here, I will lead the handlings. Unless, of course, the Stormcloaks wish to surrender today and rejoin the Empire, let us discuss our requirements for a truce to happen."

Yrsarald stood immediately, not letting anyone else take the floor. Tullius returned to his seat; he was trying his best not to appear crestfallen. "I think," Yrsarald began, "that this requirement needs no explanation. We demand the arrest of the Thalmor Elenwen. She tortured Ulfric, that priest, and gods know how many others. She is targeting other Stormcloaks, Deborah, that Orc Dragonborn Torug, and those are the targets we know about. If Deborah and Torug are both…," he sighed – he hated admitting that Torug had a god-given job to do. "If Deborah and Torug are both arrested by the Thalmor, our land would fall to both the dragons and to the undead. I am  _not_  suggesting we arrest her tomorrow. I think we can all agree that this would mean war with the elves. What I am asking for is the  _future_  arrest of Elenwen, and that she be taken to Windhelm for questioning.

"As I speak for the Stormcloaks in Ulfric's place, I still demand the end of the outlawing of Talos worship in Skyrim, and suggest the law be unwritten in Cyrodiil as well, and indeed in any other country the Empire had or has claim. However, like the arrest of Elenwen, this will cause problems with the Thalmor. So, my requirements are this: lower all weapons against the Stormcloaks as we fight dragons, undead, Forsworn. The day all of this is settled and the country calm, we will meet again to further discuss the Thalmor and have new handlings if necessary. But, I think we all know that the Thalmor have spies in this land. We have to be careful. I suggest that the most important thing we agree to do today is to make it known to the Thalmor that our truce is temporary. I believe this is where Tullius comes into the plan." He sat down and immediately received whispering comments from Galmar.

" _Lifthkine_ Tullius will speak with the Thalmor," Rikke said, standing with her fists pressed to the table, "be sure of that. But before we speak of what to tell  _them_ , we must agree on the handlings of this truce. If you Stormcloaks will not surrender, if you desire what… Deborah suggested – a temporary joining – we must agree on how long it will last, where our soldiers will go and who they will fight alongside, and what to do when the last dragon falls."

Before Rikke sat down, Galmar raised the commander a question. "So what, Rikke, do you suggest? It is not enough that our warriors simply tuck away their axes and return home. We need  _trigjen_  that they will not be arrested or killed."

"A trade, perhaps," Rikke suggested.

Galmar laughed coldly. "A trade…."

"Either a trade in the old way –  _gisen_  – or perhaps something bigger is required. A trade of cities." Rikke sat down, giving the audience a moment to consider her words.

I thought about what she said, and wondered what ' _gisen_ ' were. I knew that in periods of desired truce, hostages could be exchanged. At least once in Rome's history this happened – young Attila was sent to western Rome, and some Roman noble whose name I couldn't recall was sent to the Huns. I wondered if Yrsarald would agree to such a thing. I also wondered how  _cities_  were traded.

I could hear Galmar's incomprehensible, vibrating whispers to Yrsarald, whom we both flanked. My partner was nodding. "Better for the people," I heard Yrsarald reply.

"What say you, Jarl Yrsarald?" Tullius asked, clearly growing impatient, and evermore weary.

"One  _gis_ ," Yrsarald began, "seems too little a thing. The trade of a city, too big.  _Gisen_  can remain easily protected within palaces. We suggest two, perhaps three  _gisen_  instead of one, with just as many guards, to be housed and protected in the palaces of Solitude and Windhelm."

"And who would these three  _gisen_  be?" I heard Elisif call from the head of the table. "Many of us do not have families to send away." Her tone was noticeably harsh.

"Three is a bit much, no?" Balgruuf chimed in. "Two, at most. One relation of the Jarl, and one more of some importance."

"Thanes, perhaps," Laila suggested. "Elisif has  _two_  Thanes."

"What about house-servants?" Idgrod wondered.

Elisif laughed. "One cannot separate a house-servant from his Jarl."

"Then perhaps officers from the opposing armies," Siddgeir posed. "If there is no war to be made, then there is no need for them out in the wilds."

"Officers will be needed at Markarth and Ormra," Tullius reminded us.

"Yes, but I am suggesting  _one_  officer," Siddgeir of the trimmed eyebrows replied. "Rikke can go to Windhelm, and Galmar to Solitude. Perhaps one of Elisif's Thanes can be her second, and… whomever Yrsarald has among his people, his. That is, if a second is even necessary. Officers and commanders are important enough, I say."

Tullius, Rikke, and Elisif were talking among themselves, as were Yrsarald and Galmar. I looked across the room to where Wuunferth and Marcurio stood. Neither of them appeared terribly concerned.

Still negotiating, Yrsarald added to the offer. "Galmar and Rikke, and at least one soldier of their choosing to accompany them as a guard. Naturally, any blood spilt will end with raised weapons."  _Raised weapons,_ I repeated to myself.  _The end of a weapon-rest._ "I suggest each  _gis_  be allowed to return home, gather belongings, choose a guard, and then the trade will be made here, in Whiterun, in one week's time."

I watched as audience members around the room gave assent with silent nods.

Balgruuf stood, looked to Tullius, and then around the room. "Is everyone in agreement?"

. . . . . .

_It's almost too much to comprehend, all of the crap that is happening now. Savos is convinced more and more that Akatosh has something special planned for me, something to do with dragons and Oblivion and Aetherius, and that is why both Meridia and Arkay are so interested in me. But I argued that it was Torug's job to take care of the dragons. I am Meridia's champion. I am a hunter of the undead, as Jenassa would explain it. I'm going to kill Torug, one day, but not yet. I'm not sure what this has to do with Aetherius, but I don't think I want to find out._

_Apparently these other people wanted by the Thalmor, Delphine and Esbern, are in the business of hunting dragons too. From the documents, it sounded like Esbern is supposed to be particularly knowledgeable about dragons. I wonder where they are, if they are still alive, and if they are really helping Torug as the document about the Orc makes it sound._

_I really hope that the "prophecy" the mages kept talking about is false. I remember it from that book now, the first Norren book I read, while I was living in Riverwood. The prophecy foretold all of the destructions of places around the world, and the next was Skyrim, which some people think is already destroyed. "Kingless, bleeding," it said. Indeed, Skyrim is kingless, and bleeding. "The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn." By the Wheel apparently the prophecy meant Fate or something like that. Or maybe the gods. Apparently the gods DO want the Dragonborn to win…._

_I hope that Torug kills Alduin, the awful black dragon from Helgen, as he is fated to do._

. . . . . .

_Three days ago…_

Everyone in the main hall was staring back at me. I took a deep breath, and continued. "There is a story in my world…. Different countries tell it different ways, but in all stories, the world ends. Sometimes this means the entire planet dies or explodes or… I don't know. In other stories, the world is reborn, perhaps people think or behave differently, or there are different creatures. But the story I know more about is one very similar to the story of this Alduin dragon. One group of ancient people in my world wrote…." I closed my eyes, remembering as best I could the Poetic Edda which I had mostly memorized, in part, years ago, and did my best to translate it into Norren. Reciting slowly, allowing myself time, I concentrated on verses that reminded me of Alduin, and the end of the world.

"'He feeds on dead men. In the home of the gods he becomes bloody.'" I swallowed hard. "'Brothers will fight and kill each other…. War, wind, and wolf all come before the end... The tree of life shakes its ancient arms…. The sun turns black. The land falls into the sea. The stars fall from the sky. The land becomes hot, and the sun explodes. The dark dragon rises from the land of the dead, bodies of men on his wings.'" I sighed, and opened my eyes, staring down at the empty goblet before me.

I looked up. In front of me, across the table, sat Laila, the Jarl of Riften. To my right was Yrsarald, and to his right was Galmar. To my left sat Savos Aren, at the foot of the table, speaking for the Mage's Council. Everyone that I could see stared back at me with eyes wider than when I admitted that I was from another world. Under the table, I felt Yrsarald's warm hand embrace mine, likely with the idea to steady its trembling.

. . . . . .

_There's no reason for these two prophecies, if you can call the Edda that, to mean the same things. As far as I know Ragnarok never happened. There are no dragons on Earth. More than having the same intention, I'm actually wondering if the prophecy from here, this world, somehow influenced the minds of people on Earth. Just like Tolkien. Meridia did say that she knew, or at least observed or spoke to the man. Maybe other gods from this world, using portals, sent ideas or dreams to people in mine. Maybe Norren isn't similar to Old Norse – maybe Old Norse is similar to Norren…._

I took a long drag of spiced wine before continuing.

_Tree of life: Yggdrasil, quaking. Gildergreen, struck by lightning. Balgruuf also mentioned "Eldergleam", which grows in a sanctuary somewhere in Skyrim._

_Black sun = eclipse? Savos mentioned a huge volcanic eruption in his native land long ago._

_Land falls into sea = "Great Collapse" in Winterhold? Or maybe a global flood?_

_Stars falling from sky = meteors… I hope. But are stars here holes in the heavenly canopy? The veil? Holes that let in magic? Is magic falling from the sky?_

I gasped, and scribbled my tiny epiphany.

_Magic is getting stronger. The veils are thinning._

My eyes were wide. Fatigue, overtiredness, and wine along with trying to interpret a prophecy like a conspiracy theorist were beginning to blow my mind.

_Dark dragon: Níðhöggr the Malice Striker, eater of Yggdrasil. Alduin the Destroyer, eater of worlds._

_Civil war: Brothers killing brothers. Imperials and Stormcloaks, Nords against Nords._

_War, wind, wolf: Great War, Civil War; wind=dragons? change? upset? storm?; wolf=Ulfric? (names means "wolf power")… doubt it._

I tapped the dry end of the quill against my lips.  _Wolf, wolf, wolf_ , I thought before scribbling more notes.

_Wolf: animal, beast, wild, hunt, meat, carnivore, pack, fur._

_Werewolves?_

_Where? Wolves._

_I am tired._

I set down my quill and stared at my last entry.  _War, wind, wolf_. The analogies were loose at best, but one had to admit that the similarities between what had since happened here in Skyrim and what was written in the Edda were noticeable. I wasn't sure where a blackening, exploding sun came in. I thought back to my dream of two galaxies fading into blackness and wondered if that was my analogy.

 _I'll just have to keep my eyes open for a solar eclipse,_ I figured, and closed my journal.

I stood and cast my life-detection spell, looking for Yrsarald. The four downstairs bedrooms were all occupied, and none of the glowing purple shapes was large enough to be Yrsarald. Upstairs, two shapes were likely candidates, one of them being Galmar. I had been surprised that Yrsarald glowed purple and not green like Vilkas or Selina had, but after talking to him about it, I figured it was because he was born as a werebear, not made so by magic.

Thankfully, the inn was only partially destroyed. The basement was a bit flooded and part of the roof burnt and crumbling, but the bedrooms, bathing room, cooking pot, and staircase were all fine. A bit ash-laden in the upper level, but fine.

Not wanting to barge in on a sleeping Galmar, I cast my Clear-Seeing spell with the intent of finding Yrsarald, concentrating on the ring he gave me. The faint blue fog traveled up the steps and to the first door on the left. Fortunately, the magic was right, and found a sleeping Yrsarald and not Galmar. Unfortunately, the bedroom had only two single beds. I kicked off my dirty boots and crawled under the thin top blanket of the empty bed, robe and all. Yrsarald was chuffing away. Next to him on a night table two candles still glowed, illuminating his serene, tawny face. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to touch him, to hold him, and breathe in his manly, woodsy scent. Instead, I let myself wonder, for just a moment, what children of ours might look like.

. . . . . .

_Three days ago…_

I stepped into the small guestroom in the temple where the little girl, Fjotra, was staying. Stenvar escorted me there from the palace; the girl, Dibella's living vessel, requested to speak with me. It was no matter – I was already packed and ready to leave for the Stormcloak camp to the east. I had even already bought a new set of traveling clothes and writing supplies from a nice shop in the marketplace.

"Thanks for coming," the girl said without moving her eyes from the desk in front of her. I turned to Stenvar who nodded and then left, closing the door behind him.

I approached Fjotra, slowly. She was sketching something. Walking around to the side, I could make out trees and a lake, with mountains in the background. The foreground, which she was sketching at that moment, looked like it contained a house. I had to ask. "What are you sketching?"

"A nice place." Fjotra laid down her pencil and gazed up at me. "You have other things to worry about."

 _Fair enough_. "Am I here because of the things I need to worry about?"

"Nope." Fjotra hopped down from her chair and zipped over to her featherbed before crashing into the fluff with a giggle. "Dibella wants us to talk about what happened to us."

"What happened?" Fjotra kicked her tiny foot toward the desk chair. I sat down. "What do you mean, 'what happened'?"

"My parents are dead and Uncle Stenvar says I need to talk to a woman who is not Dibella, someone who  _knows_."

"Uncle?" I asked under my breath.

Fjotra giggled. "He's not actually my uncle, but I call him that because he protects me. He saved me from them, from the Forsworn. He and his friends."

I knew I was staring, wide-eyed and mouth agape. "He saved you? When?"

"Fourteen months ago, just after the spring ritual. The Mother asked him to find me."

"Fourteen months?"  _Forsworn._  "One year or so…."  _Dibella statue._ "You were… taken?" I swallowed hard, and lowered my voice to a whisper. "Raped?"

That was the first time I saw Fjotra look anything but happy. I had only met her once before, but she had been nothing short of cherubic. "They took me during the night, while I and my parents were sleeping. I tried to scream, but a hand pressed too tight on my mouth. They tied me in ropes and stole me away. They gave me a potion to put me to sleep, so I would stop screaming and biting. I woke up in a cell, with iron bars and stink on the floor. The room in front of me smelled, too. Like metal and flesh. The shaman was praying. She spoke old words that I didn't understand. She was naked, and she was bleeding. I watched her cut herself…. I couldn't see everything from where I was, but I knew, later, she had put her own blood onto the statue of Dibella.

"And then, I heard a whisper in my head, a woman, warm like my mama. She told me to be strong. She told me to wait for my hero, because he was coming. So I waited…. They took my blood. A lot of it. I was too weak, after that, to fight back. Before that, I tried. I tried…. I kicked and scratched but their knives cut me and I couldn't fight anymore. They painted me with my own blood and that's when he raped me. His body was cold and hard like ice and it burned. I was so tired when it happened, but I stayed awake because they kept using healing magic. I guess they didn't want me to die…. The voice in my head whispered for me to be brave, to wait, that he was coming and I would be saved. Stenvar came the next day, but he was too late to save all of me. I stopped counting after five."

"Oh,  _god_ ," I blurted in English. "I…." I stood from the chair, needing to move around, to shake out of my bones what I had just absorbed. "Fjotra," I turned to the girl, "I'm so sorry that happened to you."

The girl shrugged. "I survived, and so did you."

I halted my pacing before walking up to her and crouching down before her. "Fjotra, what happened to me was…  _nothing_ , compared to….."

"You were held, too. You bled. But you never talked to anyone about it. Not completely."

Confusion knotted my brow, but I saw clarity and honesty in the girl's bright eyes. "Is that why I'm here? Because  _I_ needed to talk to someone about my past?"

"You're here for us to talk together. With someone who  _knows_."

I sighed, and made myself comfortable on the rug before the girl's bed. I was certainly no counselor, but if all I had to do was talk, I could handle that. "Alright," I consented, nodding once, "let's talk."

. . . . . .

I couldn't sleep. The sound of Yrsarald's chuffing and the pattering of rain against the broken roof should have been calming, but I had made the mistake of recalling my meeting with Fjotra. I grumbled, sat up in the bed, and opened my 'To High Hrothgar' journal.

 _That girl Fjotra is amazing. I can't – no, don't want to imagine being ten years old and being bled to near death and then being raped repeatedly by men and undead men. I'm still not sure what a_ Thyrnrunn  _Heart_   _is, but they are, like Yrsarald said, undead men of the Forsworn. From the sound of it, they are undead shamans, or warlocks, or something like that. And one raped Fjotra. I just can't. I can't._

I had apparently zoned out for a while, allowing black splotches to accumulate under the tip of my quill. I sighed, and blotted the hemispheres of ink with a rag.

_These fucking Forsworn need to fucking die. I'm all for religious freedom, but not when your religion calls for the torture and rape of CHILDREN. There's moral relativity and then there's just…. I just can't. My hand is shaking as I write. The rage I feel whenever I think of my conversation with her, it's near debilitating. I can't even sleep now._

_I wish I was there in Markarth right now. I want to slaughter the Forsworn with my own hands. I want to kill Torug for helping them. But I know I can't be there. I know I have to go to High Hrothgar. I just hope the city is taken quickly and that the Forsworn are annihilated. For Fjotra._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this will be the last update for quite a while. I don't know how long. I am extraordinarily busy until September. Believe me, all I want to do is write chapters for this story, but I have so, so much work to do. Guh. In any case, consider this story to now officially be on a true, long hiatus with the full and complete intention to update as soon as humanly possible. This story will never, ever be abandoned. Never fear.
> 
> Ormra - Serpentine (“Labyrinthine” aka Labyrinthian)  
> Smolakap - Sanguine/Passion  
> Bjothare - Summoner/Caller  
> Bjotharig - Summoning/Calling  
> Roniren - Monks  
> Fjarskinun - Telepathy (“far-perception”)  
> Borga - Civil  
> Gisen - Hostages


	22. These Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I'm on break from being away and though I had some sort of brief bout of food poisoning, I am feeling better now after a bottle of Gatorade and some bread. I'm feeling good about this and the next chapter, though I don't know when 23 will be posted. Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> Warning: Brief NSFW scene in the beginning.

 

_Ulfric raised his arms straight above his body, stumbling only slightly in his drunken stupor. The room hushed, and the High King briefly studied his audience. His light chuckle broke the silence, and he then proclaimed, loudly, "I'm going to fuck my bride!"_

_Cheers, hoots, howls. Revelers continued singing their drinking song: "…ter hanten, ter belsken; ter kneien, ter kunen; drek' dem hlif' – da los ein' laf'!"_

"Charming," _I mumbled to myself in English._

_Ulfric drank the dregs from his mug, slammed it down on the banquet table, and stretched his arms out behind him, cracking his knuckles._

_Galmar and Stenvar stepped up to him, each man taking an arm over a shoulder, ready to help Ulfric's wavering body to the Jarl's chamber._

_I hurried up the stairs ahead of them, needing a moment to mentally prepare myself for fucking Ulfric Stormcloak. My husband, Ulfric Stormcloak. High King, Ulfric Stormcloak._

Mrs. Ulfric Stormcloak _. The thought was not terribly calming._ He's rich, and you have nothing. He'll be good for the baby. It's alright. It's alright….

_I was reclined on the bed, still wearing my deep blue, heavy cloth wedding gown when Ulfric was led into the room by Galmar and Stenvar. Stenvar, my personal bodyguard, was my engagement present. If Ulfric had refused my request – no, my demand – of hiring Stenvar, there would have been no wedding. No money or protection for me, no heirs for Ulfric._

_The Queen of Skyrim needed a personal guard, after all._

_After Yrsarald died in the dragon attack and I lay in bed a weeping mess, Stenvar was there, but so was Ulfric, laying on his dry, stoic charm. Ultimately, it was Ulfric's logic that won me, and mainly Stenvar, over. "Marry him," he had said. "Think about the money, your future." Stenvar was never one to promote himself above anyone else when it came to romance, especially not if that someone was a rich king. But I only agreed to marry Ulfric when Stenvar agreed to let me request him as a bodyguard. In the end, I learned that this was what Stenvar had hoped for all along. Stenvar could be there for me, be there_ with _me, and I could still be Queen._

_Ulfric landed on the bed with a grunt and fell asleep immediately, made obvious from his snoring. I was convinced the man had some form of sleep apnea, judging by the rattling coming from his generous nose and his occasional stopped breath, but I wasn't sure what I could do about it._

_Galmar practically ran out of the room, perhaps eager to get back to his young blonde lady-friend, but more likely wanting to get the hell out of the Jarl's bedroom. Stenvar, however, stood by me a moment, flashing me a supportive, forced smile. He turned to leave, but I grabbed his wrist, pulling him back._

" _Don't go," I whispered._

" _Deb…."_

" _He's asleep. I_ need _you."_

" _I don't think we should tonight."_

" _Stenvar…. He can't – he can't get 'it' up."_

" _What?"_

" _He can't… you know."_

_It took him a moment. "Oh."_

" _Yeah. Oh." I stood from the bed and led Stenvar by the wrist to the Jarl's private bathing room. It contained a large tub, a latrine, several lit candelabras, a wardrobe full of linens, and a small window, all thankfully separated from the bedroom by a locking door. Secluded and protected, I turned to Stenvar. "Fuck me."_

_He stared, stunned. "He's in the next room!" he whisper-shouted._

" _I need to be fucked, Stenvar," I whisper-shouted back. "I need it. I thought it would happen tonight. He promised me it would. We haven't… we haven't yet. At all. He can't. He has problems, sometimes, he told me, and now he's drunk, asleep, so he_ really _can't." I tugged at Stenvar's unusually nice attire, an embroidered red tunic. "_ Please _, Stenvar._ Please!"

_His lips smashed onto mine. It didn't take long for him to turn me around, nearly throwing me against the waist-height wardrobe. His strong hands hoisted the heavy, layered skirt of my gown above my hips, roughly pulled my ladybriefs aside, and plunged fingers inside of me._

_I bit my lip to refrain from crying out. One of my hands was keeping my gown skirt gathered at my waist while the other was braced against the stone wall. Moments later Stenvar was inside of me. His thighs slapped against my backside. His teeth bit into the slope between my neck and shoulder, like a male lion latching onto a lioness. One of his hands clamped over my mouth, no doubt expecting loud noises to emerge soon._

" _I should feel bad about this," I heard him say._

I awoke with a start. I had shouted something, indeed waking myself up. As I stared at the ceiling, the scenes of the dream came to my mind's eye, flashing vivid images. Ulfric. King. Queen. Stenvar. Affair. I groaned, and turned to get up to pee.

And there he was, sitting, hulking on the side of the inn bed, facing me: Yrsarald, with an expression I didn't usually receive from him. Judging. Accusing.  _How could you_ , his eyes said.

I swallowed hard, knowing I must have made some sort of amorous sounds during my sleep. However, instead of admitting to what I knew I did, just stared at my partner wide-eyed and poker-faced, like a five-year-old with her hand in the cookie jar. "What?" I asked as innocently as possible.

I thought I heard a low growl. "I can smell it on you," he muttered, eyes still glaring.

"Huh? Smell what?"

"Your  _vek_ ," he answered quietly, looking away, ashamed.

"My what? What is that?" I paused a moment, and then asked, "Did I, ehh, make some noises…?" Yrsarald wasn't wearing his shirt. I could see the muscles of his neck and shoulders tense. "It was just a dream, Yrsa. I can't change what I dream."

"You shouted his name," he explained, barely audible.

I faltered before asking, "Who?" as if the answer mattered. Neither of the two men in my dream was Yrsarald. I supposed it was natural for my partner be a little jealous. Suspicious, even. When he didn't answer, I figured that I had shouted Stenvar's name, as Yrsarald had far less reason to be jealous of a dead man. "Yrsa, I'm sorry. It was just a dream. It was almost the same as before, but in this dream I had my wedding to Ulfric."  _And had an affair with Stenvar_ , I intentionally left out. Again. "It is as if the gods are sending me dreams of a different future. A future where… where Ulfric is still alive, but… but you're….. I don't know why they send me these dreams. I don't  _want_  to dream them."

"You were not enjoying the dream-touch of  _Ulfric_ ," he noted, standing. He grabbed his tunic and threw it on. His hair was disheveled, no longer held back by beads, and was in need of a proper haircut done by someone other than himself.

I sighed before quietly admitting, "No. This time it was Stenvar."

Yrsarald turned. "This time?"

"I… well, the first dream of that future, I was already married to Ulfric." I shrugged. "We… you know…. We were married," I concluded, as if that explained everything.

Still glaring at me, however with slightly less sting, the man tightened his jaw before he exhaled sharply and scratched his upper arm. "I do not like this other future of yours."

I breathed a little laugh. "Well, no, Yrsa, you would not. I do not. In that future, you're… dead…. You died, and that is why I married Ulfric. I think I was pregnant, though. In the dreams I kept thinking about a baby, but I knew it wasn't Ulfric's."

"Stenvar's," he supposed, arms crossed, disappointed and obviously jealous.

I shook my head. "No, Stenvar can't make children."

Yrsarald looked shocked. "How do you know that?"

"He told me. Long ago. We're friends, Yrsa. Friends know things about each other."

"Mmhmm," he mumbled as he bent forward to tie his boots.

I sighed and stood, and then left without a word to go find a bucket to piss in.

. . . . . .

 _8_ _th_ _of Second Seed, 203 4E_

_Helgen Ruins_

_Third night en route to Ivarstead_

_I'm so nervous. I don't think I will sleep much tonight._

_Yrsarald and Galmar made it a point to camp one night at Helgen, since we had to pass through or around it in order to get to the Falkreath Stormcloak camp anyway. They knew outlaws had overrun the ruins, and that's one of the reasons they wanted to go – they wanted to clear out what Siddgeir's warriors couldn't, or wouldn't. We didn't expect the place to be swarming with Imperials._

. . . . . .

_Earlier that day…_

We stood on the dirt road that led up to the western gate of Helgen, close enough to see that the gate was open, but far enough away that the inhabitants would not be able to recognize who we were. From such a distance, my and Marcurio's magic would not catch the life essences of those within the fortified town, but my life-detecting dragon words could. The faint red clouds moved slowly within the complex, some further inside the walls and others along the ramparts. Marcurio apparently had very keen vision, as he could tell that those he saw moving about the town were wearing Imperial Army uniforms, not the usual leather and hide garb of outlaws.

"What if they are outlaws who stole Imperial armor?" I asked.

"Then it won't matter if we kill them," Galmar replied without hesitation.

"And how will we know?" I pondered. "Siddgeir said there were outlaws. They could be outlaws." I was getting nervous.

Galmar, who outwardly despised magic and mages and had absolutely no patience for me in particular, dragged out a deep, gruff sigh. "Isn't there some kind of fancy truth spell you can use to figure it out?"

Wuunferth chuckled.

"No," I replied, "but.…" I glanced at Marcurio. "What about Clear-Seeing? Could we use it to find outlaws or Imperials?"

He shrugged. "Not impossible."

"Not impossible?" Wuunferth chortled. "Children…." The old man walked a short way ahead of us, lowered his hands to his sides somewhat in a sort of palm-up prayer stance, and then held that position for several moments. I waited to see a blue fog travel away from him or his palms, and then waited some more. Marcurio and I shared a look, neither of us really knowing what to expect, or if he was actually using the Clear-Seeing spell. A few moments of listening to birdsong later, "Imperials," Wuunferth concluded and turned, tucking his hands in each long sleeve at his front.

"How can you know this?" Yrsarald asked him.

"The Clear-Seeing spell can be used for more than just finding someone or something. With enough practice, and enough years behind you, one can use the spell to send the eye and ear elsewhere. Not too far away, but," he chuckled, "far enough."

I stared at my mentor. "You can… spy on people?"

"Yes, if necessary. But completing the spell is quite a  _strag_ , and obviously I would not use it unless the situation called for it." He paused a moment, then, "Well, this situation called for it." He motioned toward the fortified, dilapidated town. "Shall we?"

We all looked at one another, and then back at the old mage. "Wuunferth," I asked, "if this spell is known, why are there so many mysteries? About the Thalmor, about  _anything_?"

"Because, Deborah," he replied, walking up to me, "if something or someone does not want to be seen, heard or found, they will not be." He turned again, and began to walk down the road toward the Helgen gates.

"Wait," I begged, beginning to panic, "what if they don't know about the truce?"

"They will know," Yrsarald assured me. "It has been several days since the meeting. You heard what Siddgeir said – not enough guards or troops to spare because of the war. Well, the war is on hold, and so someone, perhaps Siddgeir, has commanded Imperials to take back Helgen."

Galmar chuckled. "You made him look bad; he's  _firthblakig_."

Yrsarald, Calder and Ingjard all laughed heartily. I glanced at Marcurio, who was smiling. "He's what?" I asked.

Ingjard answered for him. "Siddgeir is attempting to keep the respect of others by doing what Yrsarald suggested he could not – take back Helgen. A Jarl's power is seen in many ways, and the most important is how much he does for his people. Or her people. If Siddgeir had not saved Helgen, it would have given others a reason  _bjetrar_  his claim to the throne of Falkreath."

"'Bjetrar'," I repeated. "Means… to speak against?"

"Yes, exactly," she confirmed.

"I understand. Yrsarald… insulted Siddgeir, made it sound like he was not a good Jarl, like he couldn't… control his own land."

"Yep," Marcurio agreed as he walked back to his cart, hopped up onto the driver's seat, and urged the animals forward.

I looked ahead to my partner who along with everyone else had remained off his horse. I wondered if he had insulted Siddgeir on purpose, and even perhaps with intention, such as putting someone else in charge of Falkreath Hold.

Our party stopped just outside of what I assumed was arrow range of the ramparts. I looked up and saw two Imperial guards, one man and one woman, archers, waiting with their bows at the ready. "Do we wait for them to see us? Welcome us?"  _Kill us?_

"Send a Peace Arrow," Yrsarald commanded someone.

 _Peace arrow?_  I figured that it meant something like waving a white flag. There wasn't much else it could have meant. I watched nervously as Calder, who carried a longbow with his belongings in the cart, tied a piece of white fabric around what appeared to be an arrow made entirely out of wood. He quickly notched the arrow, aimed, and sent the object flying toward the dirt just in front of the open gate. It wouldn't have flown very far, not with the drag of the fabric and, well, being a thick, heavy-tipped wooden arrow.  _Hence_ , I figured,  _an innocent, harmless arrow. We come in peace_.

As if in encouragement, or more likely from impatience, Snowflake nudged the small of my back with her muzzle. She and Potato shared a nicker.

We waited for a response. I wasn't sure what would happen, if someone would come out to greet us or if another arrow would be sent in response, either at the ground or at our hearts. Finally, after about five or so minutes of standing in silence before the open gate, I heard the rhythm of a trotting horse.

Through the gates rode a woman in red-trimmed steel armor. I recognized it as the armor of an Imperial soldier, someone important but not as important as Tullius.  _His_  armor looked remarkably Roman, with its decorated breastplate and gold medallions, not dissimilar to what Caesar Augustus was depicted wearing in one of his statues. This lesser officer boasted no fancy breastplate, but her helmet was fancy enough, reminiscent of a Trojan's, but with a steel crest in the place of horse hair. Her skin was darker than that of most people in Skyrim, but not as dark as a Redguard's. I figured her to be, like Marcurio and Tullius, of the Imperial 'race', the humans who evolved in Cyrodiil. I wondered why she and Marcurio had darker, more 'olive' skin than Tullius. Perhaps darker skin tone meant they were from southern Cyrodiil.

From her mount, a glorious black animal, the officer took off her helmet and set it on the saddle horn. Her dark blonde hair was tied back in multiple braids. "Your signal of peace is  _ekjent_. Speak your reason for entering Jarl Siddgeir's land and not your own."

Surely, the officer would have recognized Galmar's bear-themed getup instantly, but she failed to show any signs of being interested in killing him or Yrsarald. Behind her, the steady ambient noise of the town had fallen silent. Everyone had stopped to listen.

"We are escorting the Dragonborn to Ivarstead, taking the southern road from Whiterun, and require a place to camp tonight," Yrsarald answered with the truth. "We have tents; all we ask is for a place to put them, and a place to water our horses."

The officer pursed her lips and took in the sight of us. We wouldn't have looked like much of a threat to her garrison, with only four warriors and three mages. The woman had absolutely no obligation to offer us a place to sleep. Except, I realized, Yrsarald had let it be known that one of us was 'the Dragonborn', which he likely thought would help seal the deal. The officer then locked eyes with Ingjard, who was somewhat behind me to my right. I watched as a tiny smile creaked across Ingjard's partially shielded face, as she righted her posture.

I laughed, internally. The Imperial officer immediately assumed that the tall warrior woman in fancy armor was the Dragonborn. Of  _course_  she would assume that. Being honest with myself, I was almost relieved. Obviously, word about me had not spread very far yet, or at least not as far as Falkreath. If I had been wearing the special, enchanted armor that Wuunferth and Oengul have been readying for me, the story might have been different.

The officer cleared her throat. "I am Legate Aurela Cato, of the Catos of New Sutch, Leader of the Falkreath troop. You are guests of Jarl Siddgeir and of the Empire, and as such you will  _hlothasn_  by our laws during your stay. You may camp within our walls for one night. Follow, I will show you to the stables."

As we walked deeper into the town, the smell of burning wood and something less appealing assaulted my nostrils. " _Ugh_ ," I grunted, "what is that smell?"

"People," Yrsarald said in a whisper. "Many burnt people."

. . . . . .

_We decided to continue our ruse for the Imperials. Wuunferth, Marc, and Ingjard are sleeping in the one larger tent, and me and Yrsa are sharing the smaller one. A lean-to was made by Calder, and he and Galmar will sleep under that while the other takes his turn guarding us all during the night. We're pretending that Calder is Ingjard's bodyguard, and that Galmar is Yrsa's. Mr. Old Grumpybear wasn't terribly thrilled with only getting a partial night's sleep, but the journey to the Falkreath Stormcloak camp isn't a long one, and Yrsa promised him a long rest tomorrow._

_Though we didn't exactly converse much with our Imperial guests, we did learn what had happened at Helgen. Almost immediately following the meeting of Jarls and mages, Siddgeir sent word to his warriors and to the local Imperial camp that Helgen was to be reclaimed, and it was a rather easy feat. Galmar was right. Siddgeir was trying to save face. The Imperial troops easily cleared out the unwanted presence, and already cartloads of building supplies were stocked around the complex. Yrsa commented that apparently Siddgeir_ did _have the money to rebuild after all, and had previously just not bothered with Helgen until someone called him on his stinginess._

_Unfortunately, as it has only been several days, the smell of makeshift funeral pyres made for the few dozen outlaws and highway bandits is still hanging in the air here, and it brought back my own memories of Helgen much too vividly._

I closed my journal and tapped the quill tip on a rag. Yrsarald was studying a map, tracing pathways or other such designs with his first finger and thumb, perhaps strategizing. I watched the movements for a while. I found it oddly relaxing.

"Yrsa?" I whispered, and was left waiting a moment before he looked up from his map. I spoke just over my breath. "Are we safe here?"

He didn't smile for reassurance's sake, but rather sucked in the air held in his mouth, having to actually think about his answer. "If the Imperials hurt any one of us, the truce will be ended. The Stormcloak troops in the southeast should be reaching the Falkreath and Whiterun camps by now, which means we have support despite some being moved to Markarth. Now, to the point of your question…." He smoothed back his mussed hair and let his thoughts stew again for a moment. "We are escorting 'the Dragonborn'. Many troops in the Imperial army in Skyrim are actually Nords, and as Nords I imagine they will respect the Dragonborn. They will… protect Ingjard. To harm her  _escorts_  is to harm  _her_ , and they will not want to harm her. It would bring dishonor and, perhaps, the anger of the gods. No true Nord will risk that. And, as with the temporary truce we held while gathering at Whiterun, anyone who kills a Jarl after he sends a Peace Arrow seeking shelter will not reach Sovngarde."

"You Nords make truces very serious."

He smiled warmly. "Indeed."

"You… put a lot of trust in traditions. I am not so trusting of people. People's minds change… especially when someone pays them to change it."

"This is also true."

"What if some Nords don't believe in Sovngarde, or the gods and their punishments?"

"I never met anyone who doesn't know the gods are real. Unlike your world, we have seen, spoken to our gods, Daedra too. Anyone who thinks they do not exist is a damned idiot."

"Do you think the gods would punish someone who thought they were not real?"

He shrugged. "I can't know. But if you break  _Rega_  Law, like a truce, you will not dine with Shor."

"Dine with Shor?"

Gentle laughter. "In Sovngarde, in his Hall."

I nervously tapped my fingers along the leather of my journal. "I don't think I will sleep tonight. I will use the whisper dragon word to watch the movement of the Imperial night guards. Using the word makes no sound, and does not tire me. It will help me feel better, watching over everyone in secret. I can see through walls, and I think I could see if someone was… raising a sword. Or a bow. The shape the red fog would take…."

"I can't convince you to relax, can I?" he asked with a smile, knowing me too well.

I frowned and shook my head. "Not even a locking door would help me relax anymore."

Yrsarald inched forward and pulled me in with his lumberjack arms. He kissed the top of my head and held onto me for a long time. "High Hrothgar is the safest place in Skyrim, perhaps in all of Tamriel. All those old men up there could rip a man to pieces with a whisper, if they chose to do so." He chuckled. "Everyone knows this, and knows Ulfric studied with them, and that is why they created the rumor that King Torygg was ripped apart. He wasn't, though. He was just knocked to his feet by Ulfric's thunder; I'd seen Ulfric use the Voice before, and never had any man been ripped apart. Rather, a sword got Torygg, in the end. Anyway…." Yrsarald let my head dip back and brought his lips down to mine for a tender kiss. Satisfied, he lowered the both of us into a cuddling position, his strong arms wrapped firmly around me. "You will be protected. Ingjard will be with you wherever you go. You will not have to face anything alone, ever. Your friends will be with you. Even the gods are with you."

"So, truthfully I will only have to worry about  _you_."

"Hmph, yes. But if the gods respect you at all, I think they will let me live."

I whined, recalling the alternate future dream I had in which Yrsarald was dead. "Can we not talk of death anymore?"

His chest rumbled with low laughter. "Alright, since you insist on not sleeping, what shall we talk about?"

My fingertips grazed the length of his thick strong fingers while I took a moment to think of a new topic. "Have you been dreaming of other futures?"

He shifted his body somewhat, settling into a spooning position. "Yes," was all he said.

I froze. "And?"

He moved my low ponytail to the side and his lips found the back of my neck. "There are two. Two different futures, I mean. One, you are not there; we never met. I don't like that future. Yes, Ulfric is alive in that one, but…. In the other future, I am not in Skyrim. I don't know where I am, but you are there, so it is alright."

"Not in Skyrim?"

"We are somewhere… different. Confusing. I never told you about my dreams because…. Well, that other future that you are not in upsets me. But  _this_ one, well, I thought might upset  _you_."

"Why would it upset me?"

He stiffened. "Tell me. Do you… know of a weapon that shoots fire so fast that nothing can escape it? Like a bow, but much, much stronger and faster?"

 _Shoots fire_. Guns. Terrified, I pushed myself away from Yrsarald and turned around to face him. "You are dreaming of  _my world_!?" I whisper-screamed.

He hesitated before nodding. "I think so, yes. Some things you have told me about it make me think it is your world."

I couldn't believe my ears. "But I never told you about… the weapons that shoot fire. I never told anyone here about them. But… Meridia knows. She knew things about my world…. There were portals before, and I suppose she and other gods have seen through them." I stared into my partner's eyes. "What else do you see in those dreams?"

Yrsarald propped himself up on an elbow and watched his own fingers trace designs in the fur blanket beneath him. "Evil. A different evil. Like those weapons. I think it is what happens when there are no real gods. People become evil. Everyone is an outlaw."

"Not everyone in my world is evil, Yrsa."

"Yes, no, I didn't mean everyone, but, I saw it, anyway. There was no love of the land in anyone, and no respect for life."

"That is also not true. Many people in my world love and respect the land."

He peered up at me, and even in the dim lantern light I saw tears welling up in his eyes. "Then why was the land eaten by balls of fire that spit it out into the sky like a cloud?"

I stared, unblinking, for a moment. "Like a cloud? Like, a cloud rising from the land?" He nodded. I knew what he meant, what he had seen in a dream of my world.

Mushroom cloud.

"Different futures," I mumbled, shaking my head. "We are dreaming of futures that do not exist, but could have. But you dreamt of my world. That is strange. Very, very strange."

"I dreamt of Saarthal, and I have never been there, either." Yrsarald was distressed. He had at one time been overwhelmed by descriptions of technology from my world, though he often craved tales of 'impossible things' nonetheless. This knowledge was different, though. He had seen vision of modern warfare, and it was too much to bear.

I sighed, and decided to tell myself and Yrsarald a comforting lie. "I think these dreams are futures that will not be. I dreamt of Ulfric alive, and that cannot be, cannot happen. I already met you, and so that future too cannot happen. I think the dreams are only dreams, nothing special. It is possible, though, maybe, that we are seeing different worlds where these futures happened, are happening. If the separation between Aetherius and Mundus is breaking, then why not  _other_  worlds? Like my world, or another world that I don't know exists. But… it doesn't matter. Whatever they are, they don't matter. They are just dreams. Me, you, here, now. That is what matters." I frowned before adding, "And we should not be angry at each other for having these dreams."

Yrsarald's eyes were apologetic before he kissed me once more. We settled into a silent, cozy snuggle, but nagged by doubt and nerves, I didn't sleep.  _My world is not on fire. My world is not suffering a nuclear war. My family is alive and well. Without me. There is no big war, no zombies, nothing. Everything is fine._

I turned about while lying down and intermittently breathed the dragon word that revealed life to me. Nothing unusual happened throughout the night. Calder and Galmar switched guard duty maybe three or four hours after Yrsarald fell asleep. I wasn't sure, I  _couldn't_  have been sure how much time had passed. I wished for a way to keep time at night, at least if the sky was clear and perhaps a moondial was possible. Two moons would have provided quite a bit of light. The only issue with that I supposed was light cast by torches or campfires. In the end, I retired my idea for a moondial and recalled something I read about when I was in my teens, an invention from the Mesopotamians – a water clock, a mechanism that released a drop of water every second and emptied out in a day, or something like that.  _That isn't exactly portable_. I laughed at myself, and turned onto my side, facing the closed tent flap. I breathed the dragon whisper-words again and watched figures stroll to and fro, saw our own guard standing tall outside the tent.

The smooth, low hooting of an owl wooed me into slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for a little while longer. I will be busy and offline for about two weeks soon.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading. I hope you're enjoying the story as much as I am. I love writing it, and honestly if I could it would be all that I did. Now that I'm through with the political chapters the chapters are flowing nicely. Shame that I have a day job. Heh.
> 
> Anyway, do let me know what your thoughts are on the latest happenings. How do you feel about my headcanon lore? Does it work? Am I confusing anyone? Do let me know. Feedback is cherished.
> 
> Oh, and Galmar's young blonde lady-friend in the dream scene is a nod to indismero's OC Solveig in her story "An Uncommon Reaction" - one of my faves!
> 
> Up next: Skeever for dinner, relics of a battle, and a peek into Yrsarald's past.
> 
>  
> 
> "ter hanten, ter belsken; ter kneien, ter kunen; drek' dem hlif' – da los ein' laf'!"  
> "two hands, two mugs; two knees, two women; drink 'em dry - you have one life!"
> 
> Vek - Arousal  
> Strag - Feat  
> Firthblakig - saving face  
> Bjetrar - Challenge  
> Ekjent - Acknowledged  
> Hlothasn – Abide (2nd person plural)  
> Rega - Divine


	23. Artifacts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I surprised myself by getting another chapter finished. Mostly because by the end of my work day I'm too mentally exhausted to write my dissertation. The next chapter is also about half done, but no promises as to when it will be finished, polished, and ready for publication. I expect Deb to actually get down to business with the Greybeards by Chapter 26, which means this book is about two-thirds finished and there will be maybe 10-15 more chapters until this book ends and Book 3 begins. All these last few chapters are either filling in background or setting up the stage for the rest of the book/series, but if you're waiting for some major action, you won't have much longer to wait. From something like Chapter 27/8 on, Book 2 will be almost nothing but action, drama, and going hog-wild with lore extensions and in-game quest tweaking.

 

"Is… is that…." I peered closer, questioning what my eyes were relating to my brain. "Is that a giant rat?" The charred creature, the size of a large domestic cat, was roasting over a spitfire, being spun like a rotisserie chicken by a grumpy young man.

"It's a  _skamis_ ," the man, a Stormcloak soldier, answered.

"A… what?" I peered in closer, examining the animal. It was a mammal, that was for sure, and it had a thick tail almost like that of a wallaby. In fact, it looked exactly like a wallaby-rat hybrid. I got the shivers.

" _Skamis_ ," Marcurio chimed in. "Means… a small horrible thing." He laughed. "They are  _everywhere_  in Tamriel. I'm surprised you haven't seen one yet." He then voiced his disgust and waked away from the campfire.

I turned around to Yrsarald to convey my discomfort regarding dining on a giant rat. As if reading my mind, he laughed and said, "Just be glad it isn't a Frostbite Spider."

In the end, the  _skamis_  wasn't all that bad of a meal. It tasted like rabbit, which I supposed made sense. Around the campfire I sat between Yrsarald and the Falkreath camp commander, Thorygg Sun-Killer. He was a strong, average-height middle-aged man with white-blonde hair held back by two side braids, and he looked remarkably like an actor whose name I wouldn't ever have been able to recall. It was his eyes; very Scandinavian. When I asked him how he got his war-name, he replied, chuckling, "It isn't my war-name. My uncle gave it to me as a boy. Every time I would visit him during the summer, the sky would cloud over and it would rain for days, flooding the fields. He even blamed me for killing his crops one year. That's the true story, but what I tell most people is that me and my men shield the land from the sun with our arrow-fire. A rain of arrows so thick, the sky turns black." He chuckled again and drank his mead. "Better than being cursed with bringing storms."

The handful of soldiers received me well, just as they had at the Whiterun camp. Most of those who were stationed at the two camps had been sent to Markarth, and those that remained were lower ranked. They also were slowly running out of provisions, and had stooped to hunting less-desired prey, such as  _skamisen,_ giant rats. They were confident however that a shipment of produce would be arriving soon from one of the farms in The Rift, the Hold to the east.

Later in the evening, Ingjard and I sat down with a group of female soldiers who were chatting around a smaller campfire. A petite, tanned woman with a shaved head, called Bay or Bae by the others, was repairing her bow. Keta, who wore her blonde hair in two long braids that hung over her chest, was reading a letter and giggling with Bae about the contents. The oldest woman at the camp, a black-and-silver haired, muscular Nord named Jolda, was sewing some large grey feathers into her fur cloak "out of boredom", a comment she spoke quietly as to not let Thorygg, Galmar, or Yrsarald hear, lest they tell her to go "make herself useful". Haneig, a strikingly tall blonde who had smeared charcoal down her face for whatever reason, glared at Jolda after she uttered her comment, but said nothing. I later learned that anyone complaining about boredom at the camp would be given watch duty for three days – and nights – in a row. Haneig was obviously not in a position to order Jolda to do such a thing, but apparently wasn't going to snitch, either.

Jolda was the only woman not holding conversation with the others. As I nibbled on some dried apple slices, I watched her work the feathers into the cloak. "What bird are the feathers from?" I soon asked her.

" _Kerlvaken,_ " she said with a hint of derision, sharing a light chuckle with another older woman whose name I never learned, as if I should have recognized the feathers.

I would have felt embarrassed for asking the women what a  _kerlvak_  was, so I held my tongue until Ingjard and I left the circle.

"Ugh, you don't want to know," my bodyguard replied.

"Yes, Ingjard, I do. Those women laughed, like it was obvious. They are grey, not black, so they are not… raven. Not brown like most big birds. I don't think I've seen grey birds."

Ingjard finished picking something out of her teeth before answering. "Alright. Think of what the child of a bird and a man would look like. That is a  _kerlvak_."

I stared at the armored beauty in moderate disbelief. "Like Khajiit, but birds?"

She cackled in response. "No, gods, no. Khajiit are like elves, humans… not a mix of animals."

"I know, I know. I remember now. But, to me, they are like a mix."

" _Kerlvaken_  aren't exactly a mix…." She thought a moment, sucking air through her teeth, obviously bothered by some stuck food. "A  _kerlvak—"_

" _Kerlvak_?" asked someone from behind me. I turned to see a scrawny teenager, not more than seventeen, surely, standing with a wood-cutting axe relaxed on his shoulder. "What about 'em?"

"She's never seen one before," Ingjard indicated me. "I'm just trying to figure out how to describe them."

The boy chuckled. "No need." He shifted the axe from his shoulder to point at some trees surrounding the camp to the west. "We killed three just there. Was about a week ago…. But, I'm guessin' they're still fresh. So fuckin' cold up here…." He shifted his gaze to me, and grinned. "Come on, I'll show ya."

. . . . . .

_9_ _th_ _of Second Seed, 203 4E_

_Falkreath Stormcloak Camp_

_Fourth night en route to Ivarstead_

Kerlvaken _. Disgusting, wretched bird-women who were once humans but gave their souls to a dark god in exchange for massive magical powers. They received power, but lost their humanity in the process. They look almost like female draugrs with shrunken features, shriveled skin, and barely-there hair on their heads. Their noses are beaklike and their fingernails are deadly talons. Their teeth are sharp and their eyes beady. Feathers grow from their forearms, shoulders and waistline. And their feet – once human with five digits – had been transformed to have four, just like a raptor. They are indeed the hybrid of a human woman and a bird of prey, or perhaps rather some eagle-god whose name the Nords have long forgotten._

 _Yrsarald told me that the bird-women, whose name,_ kerlvak _, means something like "old woman raven",_ kerl-ravak _, are worshipped by the Forsworn, and are often living at Forsworn camps. Yrsa never encountered one, but the boy who showed me the bodies – he proudly called himself Skogar the Skoge, or Woody the Woodsman, basically – claimed he took down the "mother" of the three raven-women, who had been decapitated. Most of their feathers had been plucked to sell as alchemy ingredients, but some feathers were claimed by those that killed the beasts, Jolda being one of them. Skogar told me how their fire magic destroyed an entire section of the forest – indeed, burnt stubs of trees supported the claim. It allegedly took more than ten arrows to take every one of them down. The "mother", the decapitated one, had still hung on to life, even with three arrows piercing her chest, necessitating his axe coming down on her neck._

_Skogar is apparently writing a song about the encounter._

_The bodies that I was shown had been munched upon by various forest critters, but are now frozen solid, unburied, just like the dead soldiers we found on the way to the camp._

. . . . . .

_Earlier that day…_

"You  _told_ him?" Marcurio asked, flabbergasted.

"I had to Marc, he heard… I don't know, I said Stenvar's name at least, probably said more things…."

My friend clicked his tongue. I knew what that meant – my good 'earth friend' Shaleva used to make that sound whenever she disapproved of something.

Marcurio and I were walking up a mountain path in front of the horse-drawn cart that Calder offered to drive while Marcurio took a break from sitting. We were east of Riverwood, en route to another Stormcloak camp that sat in the foothills of the mountain some called the Throat of the World, the mountain I would be climbing in a few days.

"You dream about him a lot," my friend said in a muted voice, obviously talking about Stenvar.

"I do. I don't know why. It certainly isn't every night; most nights it is dragons or zombies, sometimes dreams of my home and family, or no dreams at all. You said you did not have any dreams of different futures. Is that still true?"

"Hm? Oh…. I have, now, actually…." He was blushing. "Not as interesting as yours, but…. I was the Priest of Arkay in Riften – probably got the job from my mother – not Windhelm's apprentice Court Mage, and Bird was not in my life. Instead, a Dunmer was. And there was no you, no Flavia."

"A Dunmer?" I repeated, smiling. "A Dunmer you know?" I watched a deeper red wash over Marcurio's tan complexion. "Or maybe a Dunmer you  _knew_ …." I grinned mischievously.

"Don't tell Bird, alright? Life is upsetting enough, with me away so much."

"You know I wouldn't. They are just dreams." I peered sideways at my friend, curious for more details. "So, this Dunmer…?"

"Nope, no. No."

I laughed. "Marc, we have been walking for hours. My mind is dead from boredom. I told you about… you-know-who…." I elbowed him in the arm. And again.

He swatted me away, a stern, stone-cold look about him that lasted all of three seconds. "Alright, alright…." He brushed his dark hair back with a hand and sighed. "His name is Syndrus. He studied at the Mages  _Gild_  in Cyrodiil before the Great War…." Marcurio paused a moment, as if deciding what to say. "He's, I suppose, middle-aged for a Dunmer. Hair as black as midnight and skin like the ocean. Purple tattoo on his forehead. He came to Skyrim after the Imperial City was attacked. The only safe road out of the country at the time was to the north-east, so he ended up in Riften, where I was born. I was a child when he came, but I was thirteen when I first met him, officially." A smile came and went. "He was a teacher, at first. Magic. My mother taught me since I was very young, but Syndrus was stronger than she was. I met him in secret, to learn more than just Restoration magic. Years later when I left for the College, he came with me. He didn't go as a student, but instead a scholar, learning on his own. Over the years he became quite  _paroka_ , and I along with him."

"'Paroka'?"

Marcurio looked to the sky for a translation. "Thinking too highly of himself."

"Ah."

"I still do that, think too highly of myself, sometimes – I can't help but do that. It comes from my mother, too…. But Bird has a way of bringing me down to the earth."

I smiled knowingly. Indeed, when I first met Marcurio, he seemed a bit pretentious and uptight. Not so much arrogant, as he was claiming, but by that time Bird had been in his life for the better part of a decade. Bird was anything but uptight and pretentious – a definite complement to Marcurio. They balanced one another.

"Syndrus and I had been lovers for years, even when I was a young man, still in Riften. Bird knows about him, my past. Syndrus was actually with me when I first met Bird in Dawnstar…. He was busy working with some other Dunmer there, and Bird was working at the inn." Marcurio chuckled. "He wasn't as skinny back then. Less running around, much more goat's cheese and salted meats." My friend's honey eyes sparkled as he related the memory. "He  _hated_  me at first, thought I was a  _paroka_ asshole. I quickly realized that  _nag_  wasn't the way to win the Nord God Orri who called himself Bird. I had to think of something else." Marcurio fell quiet for a few moments. "When Syndrus came back to the inn at night, he always called Bird and the rest of the workers  _granen_ , just because they worked in an inn. The mine-workers, too…. I knew he was wrong about Bird. I realized then that I didn't like who I was, who Syndrus was. One night, I left while Syndrus slept; put a note on my pillow, and pretended like I went back to Riften. He didn't know that I instead hid in an old fortress up the hill, waiting for him to leave. I had paid a mine-worker to tell me when he left, which was only two days later. Apparently he didn't even try to find me with Clear-Seeing…." He shrugged off the past disappointment. "But then, sometimes I think that old fortress was warded against that kind of magic. Anyway…." He waved himself off. "I went back to the inn. I stayed there for weeks. During that time, I made myself useful to the old Jarl, and even the innkeeper. And… well, you know the rest. It took me four months, but Bird finally ended up in my arms."

"What changed Bird's mind about you? Not thinking you were an asshole?" I smirked.

"He told me he realized he was wrong about me, that Syndrus just made me look bad. But  _I_ like to think I won his heart by doing a lot of wood-chopping. For no pay. With my shirt off." He grinned. "Thankfully, it was summer. Still cold, though."

We shared a laugh, and continued on our hike. The temperature was dropping steadily as we gained altitude and particularly when clouds finally shielded the sun after their long journey from the northwest. They were snow-laden clouds, for sure. Having previously shed my rain cloak, I rummaged through my belongings on the back of the cart to retrieve my furs, the cloak with the white bear-fur hood Stenvar had gifted me. Marcurio did the same.

"Why do you think we are dreaming of different futures?" I mused aloud, eager for his opinion.

"I have no idea, Deb. The gods and the Daedra can send us dreams as they will. The Daedra Lord Vaermina is blamed for bad dreams, and Azura for dreams so good that they can be painful."

"Painfully good – like, a pie that is too sweet and hurts the teeth?"

"Yeah, I suppose. Or, memories of your life that were good, but your life at that moment is not good. Painfully good memories."

"Mm." I heard something scurrying in the brush to my right and, admittedly a bit jumpy and paranoid, I cast my life-detection spell to assess the level of alarm. Smallish. Fast.  _Rabbit_ , I assumed. Threat level: negative five.  _Unless it's a killer rabbit,_ I humored myself _._  " _Run awayyy_ ," I muttered in English, under my breath.

"What?"

I grinned at my friend. "Nothing, nothing. Marc, do you think the future dreams are happening because of what the Eye of Magnus is doing? That, maybe, just like how portals opened to my world and others, maybe portals are opening to… different... well, this world, this life, but a little different?"

"This world but different?"

"Yes, so, if you maybe never married Bird – that's a different future, and maybe… maybe, there is another world out there, another you, another Bird, and you're living in Skyrim but have different futures. And maybe, in my world there is the same. There is a world on my planet where I did not die, where I lived and I met a man named Steve and have two children."

"Steve?"

"Yes, remember, that other Stenvar dream…?"

"Oh, yes." We walked in silence for a moment, pondering. "It is not impossible," Marcurio concluded.

"No. It is not impossible," I agreed.

One snowflake. Two. Many. Fat and heavy, the wet snow quickly dusted our fur cloaks and hoods, and tickled our noses.

And then the line stopped. Heading the party was Galmar and Yrsarald on horseback. I heard no commotion, so I figured there was no trouble ahead, but rather some confusion as to direction, or someone needing a break – an injured horse, perhaps. I turned behind me to peer up at Wuunferth, sitting in the back of the cart, to assess the situation based on his reaction. He appeared puzzled, but not worried. A good sign.

Marcurio and I exchanged a brief look and simultaneously advanced. Our leaders had been maybe ten meters ahead of us while Ingjard always changed position, sometimes walking alongside me, other times ahead or behind, often checking behind the cart as well. I heard her jog to catch up with me.

Yrsarald and Galmar dismounted as I walked up between their horses and received an eyeful of the reason for their halting. Though the snow and distance obscured the scene somewhat, I knew what I was looking at.

Bodies. Bodies and faint splotches of brown, dried blood, dusted with snow, dotted the white landscape and the loosely-paved snow-dusted road. Slowly, all of us advanced. I heard a metal weapon being drawn. Like-minded, Marcurio and I casted spells. I could tell from the muted glow of his palms that he had cast the exact magic I did – dead detection. White, dead. Blue or red, undead. Fortunately for everyone, I only saw white.

The closer we walked to the bodies the more obvious it became that there had been a battle. More than five that I had counted so far were Stormcloaks, and three were Imperials.

"Lying shit-sacks!" I heard Galmar growl as he thrust his axe to the snow in a furious rage. "I fucking knew it!" The commander promptly knelt to the side of a female Stormcloak and removed her helmet, no doubt attempting to figure out or confirm her identity. Perhaps he knew her.

Yrsarald stood facing the scene, hand rubbing at his throat, no doubt thinking upon Galmar's assumptions: that a patrol of Imperials killed Stormcloaks.

I, too, approached a body. I didn't want to, but I couldn't keep away. The man I knelt before was an Imperial, in both allegiance and heritage. He was short, had once been tan, and died clean-shaven. His skin was shriveled, taught and leathery. There were gnaw marks on his nose, and his left arm had been chewed away by some large carnivore. The body was not at all bloated. All signs pointed toward the corpse being on its way to becoming freeze-dried. A mummy. Looking at a nearby second body, I witnessed the same.

"Wait," I commanded, loudly. "These people have been dead a long time." Galmar stood, and with Yrsarald turned to me, expectant. "Well, not a  _long_  time," I corrected myself, "but if they died only days ago, they would look… fresh, as if alive, just cold and blue. But they are dried up like old flowers. It is the cold that did this, a long time being in the cold."

"How long?" Galmar asked.

"I don't know. But more than one week, I am certain."

Galmar almost looked disappointed. He turned to Yrsarald. "It's part of the Rift troop," was all he said before turning back to the dead black-haired woman he had been examining.

"Are you sure?" Yrsarald asked, his voice carrying hesitancy and something else. Galmar grunted confirmation.

Yrsarald walked further down the road. I followed. He stopped once he reached the body of someone dressed in the way he used to, the same outfit Galmar still wore, but without the bear headdress. The woman had dark blonde hair and was older, middle-aged. She had the tattoo of an eagle's head, set with brown ink, sprawling over a good portion of the right side of her face. Two lopsided braids, tied together at the back of her head, held back her bloodied hair. By the look of her frozen grimace, she did not die peacefully. I tried to see these deaths as Yrsarald and other Nords might – dying gloriously on the battlefield, dying for your cause, dying for Skyrim. In the end, all I saw was a mummified middle-aged woman who was once a pretty, fearsome thing, brave enough to get a tattoo on her face.  _What was that word Galmar used to describe deserters?_ I wondered. ' _Ravaksvole', raven-starver. Coward._ This, she was not.I hoped that she met the end that she wanted, and that she was in Sovngarde, if that was what she had hoped for.

My partner knelt before the woman and, though hesitant about the motion, his fingers hovered over her tattoo for a moment before moving some snow to cover her open, frozen, screaming dead eyes. He did not move from her side.

"You knew her," I surmised.  _And knew her well,_  I guessed, judging by how he reacted to her tattoo.

"Okrith," he said, slouching, his elbows resting on his thighs. " _Okri_ -storm."

"What?"

"Her name. It means ' _okri_ -storm'."

"Oh. Is 'okri' the bird of her tattoo?"

"Mm."

I bit my lip. "Is she… is she the one you…?"

"Yeah." He proceeded to rummage through the woman's frozen leather pouches and knapsack.

"What are you looking for?"

"Anything her family might want. Can you do the same, for others?" he asked, looking up at me.

"I can…." Yrsarald recommenced his rummaging. "We have to bury them, somewhere," I added before leaving to do what he asked.

"Ground will be frozen," he replied.

"Oh, well, then Marc and I can burn then. We did that at the fortress, for Nafrik and Fjalar."

"Send Ingjard out for some wood, then," he ordered flatly.

I nodded, but he wasn't looking at me. I watched him for another moment as he peered at his dead former lover, girlfriend, whatever. He was remembering. Reminiscing. I definitely didn't feel good that the woman from his past was dead. I didn't know her. Jealousy wasn't a possibility, at least not anymore. She was likely a wonderful person, seeming as how Yrsarald once  _loved_  her. I was sad for her, despite her heroic end. I was sad for Yrsarald, being faced with processing her dead body. But I was also glad that he had some closure regarding the woman.  _Okrith. Okrith. Okri-hrith,_  I repeated to myself.  _Eagle-storm. Eagle woman._

I walked further up the road to search the bodies of other fallen soldiers. No one had much of anything to send anywhere. Galmar worked with me in recording names and writing down what belongings we took off of them. One man, a Stormcloak named Kel, was wearing a very fancy necklace which Galmar called an 'amulet of Mara', which we left on his body. We also left one gold coin each, any food or drink they kept in their packs, jewelry that they wore, and of course their armor and weapons – all things "useful in Sovngarde" I was told. We only gathered excess gold, letters, journals and the like that family members would have wanted.

When we finished and all the bodies were piled up with wood underneath them, they were set aflame by myself, Marcurio, and Wuunferth. Thankfully, we waited only long enough to make sure the fire caught. I didn't want to smell burning flesh again. No one sang any songs for the fallen – I couldn't remember the nice one Stenvar sang at the fortress – but Marcurio had his eyes closed, and his lips were moving with silent words. He was praying.

We didn't make it much further up the road when we saw three more bodies strewn about, two in the middle of our path and one draped awkwardly over a tree stump. They were dressed differently from the others, neither Imperial nor Stormcloak. Their armor was golden, and their helmets were curved upward at the center, like a flame.

In front of me, Galmar spat at the ground. "Fucking Thalmor.  _Gutrensk._ "

"Those are Thalmor?" I asked, walking around Galmar and Yrsarald to get a better look.

"Wait, Deb," Marcurio called to me. "One of them is still alive."

I turned back to him. "Which?" He pointed to one still on the road. Cautious and paranoid, I cast Stoneflesh upon myself and advanced. I wanted to see a Thalmor soldier up close.

I wondered if I was wrong about how long these soldiers had been dead.

The woman was flat on her back. Her left arm was broken or perhaps hacked at the elbow, at the armor joint, and blood had pooled around the wound. Her weapon, a fancy, green-gold hand-axe with curving designs, was too far away from her hands for her to reach. As I drew closer, I could finally see her chest move with shallow breaths, easily missed from afar. Her skin was somewhat darker than Elodie's, much more yellow than orange, and had a green tint instead of pink. Strawberry blonde hair peaked out from under her helmet. She was tall and lean, and retained a vicious snarl on her face.

I knelt down beside the dying High Elf. No one told me to back away – not that I would have listened, anyway. The closer I got, the more frantic the elf's breathing became. She knew she was dying. She knew she was vulnerable. Perhaps she was paralyzed. In an instant I went from feeling rage to empathy, and my resolve dissipated. "I'm not going to hurt you," I said, softly, automatically even, as if talking to a wounded deer, despite the animal lacking any understanding of human intent. Straight-faced, I raised my right hand and held within the palm a ball of glowing, healing light. "I could heal you."

The woman's chin quivered before her dry, cracked lips parted. Her mouth was forming a sound, but she was hesitant to voice it. She then winced, as if moving her lips hurt too much. Not waiting for her consent, I laid my palm against her torso and let the healing magic do its job. Without examining her body, I had no way of knowing in exactly what way she was wounded, but even a generic flash of healing light could do at least a little good. I then reached to my knapsack for my canteen, popped the cork, and let some water dribble into the woman's mouth.

I sat back on my heels. "Now, can you tell me who you are, and when you were attacked?" There was no doubt in my mind that Stormcloaks had attacked the Thalmor or defended themselves against a Thalmor attack, but I was curious to know if the elves were with the Imperials, and if the woman before me had remained alive for no less than a week in the middle of nowhere.

Her mouth quivered again, straining to form words. I leaned in even further so that she wouldn't have to force much air through her lungs. And then, in a brief moment of chaos, I heard shouts behind me as the woman wrapped fingers around my cloak tie and dragged me down closer to her face. Her lips completed the snarl as she forced two words out of her strained mouth. " _Skiiita_ … Norrrd…."

From behind me, Galmar wasted no time in brandishing a dagger, approaching, and slitting the elf's throat.

. . . . . .

_Okrith. So, finally a name for Yrsarald's only former love. I didn't ask him about her. I think it's too soon. Someday, I want to know about her. I want to know what he loved about her, what her favorite food was, and if they had talked about marriage._

_Marriage…. Marriage, marriage. Sometimes I get the feeling that Yrsarald is going to ask me to marry him, and then it just doesn't happen, or we get interrupted by one thing or another and the moment dies or something. The feminist in me is telling me to go ahead and just ask him, but I know me – I'm not confident enough to assume someone would say yes to that question. It's too damn big a risk. I couldn't handle it if Yrsa said no. I wish I had talked to Brey about this before we left. Maybe I could talk to Marc._

Shouts from outside my tent drew my attention away from my journal. "To Kel!" a man, Galmar, I thought, shouted, and the soldiers repeated. "To Okrith!" Echoing shouts. Galmar called out seven names, those of the dead Stormcloak soldiers we had found, but not the three Imperials or Thalmor. Their names were not known, and their existence, apparently, immediately forgotten.

_I'm still unnerved by my encounter with that Thalmor woman. Sometimes it's nice to know that your prejudices aren't entirely unfounded… But I'm somewhat angry with Galmar for just killing the elf when we COULD have maybe gotten information out of her. But in all fairness she was near death anyway and called me a "filthy Nord". Marc reminded Galmar that the Thalmor, like many High Elves, are skilled in magic, and she could have easily used healing magic to keep herself alive for quite a while, so she and the other Thalmor might have been traveling with the Imperials, or as a third party and happened upon the civil skirmish. Or, perhaps, the Stormcloaks and Thalmor had gotten into a fight and the Imperials intervened. Still, the fight likely occurred before the truce was called, or occurred too soon after it for the soldiers to have been informed of the ceasefire._

_In any case, tomorrow we finally reach Ivarstead, and the next day or the day after that, Ingjard and I will make the climb to High Hrothgar._

I set down my journal, deciding to join the soldiers around the campfire. I put on my fur cloak, entered the chilly night air, and walked into Yrsarald's welcoming arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, planning, and goodbyes.
> 
> Skamis - Skeever ("little miscreant")  
> Kerlvaken - Hagraven  
> Paroka - Arrogant  
> Nag - Charm  
> Granen - Losers/Low-lives  
> Ravaksvole - Coward ("raven starver")  
> Okri - Eagle  
> Gutrensk - Good Riddance (“good purge”)  
> Skita - Filthy


	24. Ivarstead

_10_ _th_ _of Second Seed, 203 4E_

_Ivarstead_

_The journey was a long one, but we made it to Ivarstead not long after sundown. Though it was dark, the moons were bright, and I got a decent look around. The town feels deserted but really it's just small. I think no one but farmers, the innkeeper, and a couple traders live here. The proximity to the mountain's base makes me nervous, and I half expect an avalanche to fall on me while I sleep. I'm a bit afraid to see the mountain this close in the light of day. I saw glimpses of it as we traveled along the foothills, but eventually the sky became thick with low clouds and I saw nothing._

_Along the way we met a lone huntress adorned in white furs, and passed through what looked like some kind of gateway, or maybe a boundary marker. Marc said, and Wuunferth agreed, that it was built by the ancient Nords. I remember the ruins vividly. I tried to sketch them in here, but I'm just bad at drawing. Yrsarald said he'd give it a go. The ruins consisted of two stone pillars topped with carved eagle heads that faced one another. Marc said that the eagle was once worshipped as a god by the Nords, and that the pillars likely served as some sort of protection. Definitely a boundary of some kind._

. . . . . .

"I do not understand why you still write in your journals in your own language. You should be writing down everything in that book I gave you." Yrsarald shot me a teasing look. His words were light, but his meaning was much more heavy. Though he was grinning, his tone said, "You are not using my gift, and I noticed".

I took back my journal from him. "I am not yet good enough in your language. All of these… these thoughts," I caressed the leather cover of the journal, "they are mine; in my language; only I can read them. It is as if I am still able to… I don't know, talk to people from my world, when I write in my language." I frowned, unsure if I should speak my mind, but in the end sincerity won out. "Sometimes I like to think that maybe, one day, my family will be able to see these journals. I don't know how that can happen, but," I slid the journal back into my knapsack, "in a strange way I feel like I am talking to them this way, telling  _them_  my story. With your gift," I continued, smirking at my partner, "I will write in it when I am good at writing your language. I am still practicing, with letters to Brelyna… although, she will be busy with Elodie for a while…."

"Write to  _me_ ," he suggested, smiling. "Write to me while you're at High Hrothgar. Ingjard could be sent down to Ivarstead to give the letter to a courier, and to pick up any letters I send. The little shop here could hold onto the letters for her. And as you know, Ivarstead is not far from the Falkreath camp. I could easily have one of our military couriers deliver my letters to Ivarstead, as they would pass through the town anyway, or camp overnight."

"It is not a bad idea, Yrsa, but the couriers would have to travel… what, one week? From Ivarstead to Windhelm?"

"No, not going east and then north. Five days of hard riding; fresh horses in Shor's Stone both ways."

"Is that not much to ask of Ingjard, to take an entire day to go down the mountain and up again every time I want to send a letter? What if she is attacked on the way? I heard what those people in the inn said about wolves on the path, and that they have kept people from going up far."

"Wolves will not be the death of Ingjard," he retorted with a chuckle. "And, no, it is not too much to ask. Remember, house-servants train at least twice a day. This will be part of her training. If she does not train, you will hear her whining from down the stone halls of High Hrothgar, about being bored and growing fat." His cheeks became red as he chuckled more. "And it will not be every day you send her to Ivarstead. Twice in one month, at most. And, anyway, she will need to make the journey to get more food, for certain."

I said nothing further in response, only nodded. His logic made perfect sense. It wouldn't be so bad, being away from him, if I was receiving a letter from Yrsarald twice a month. Sure, despite not being in my own world for years, I was still very much accustomed to instant communication, but two weeks was nothing compared to what some people I'd known had gone through with their spouses in the military being somewhere unreachable for sometimes months on end. I would be lucky to receive a letter every two weeks, though I wasn't at all sure I would receive one that often. It was still a decent plan.

From my knapsack I pulled out the single-slotted, wooden snow goggles I had bought from a kiosk in the small town. I laughed loudly when I saw the kiosk, with its souvenirs for tourists or pilgrims or whoever else visited Ivarstead. The goggles were well-known in my world to prevent snow-blindness, an invention of the Inuit, if not an even older culture. Yrsarald and Marcurio thought I was insane for buying them for Ingjard and myself, but for only two gold coins each I had to purchase them, almost for the hell of it. The kiosk also sold goggles made out of mammoth ivory, but I didn't feel like spending ten gold a piece on those. But I knew me and my eyes, I knew I might very well need snow goggles while hiking up the mountain. I sorely missed sunglasses, and was ever-thankful for the various hoods I owned, all useful for different kinds of weather. They helped a little in keeping the sun away from my eyes.

Also sold at the kiosk were various things a pilgrim might need – mainly hiking paraphernalia – and also ceramic figurines of the mountain itself. I wondered if people at the base of the Matterhorn or Everest sold similar knickknacks, perhaps pewter mountains instead of sculpted clay. To be fair, the ceramic mountainettes were painted and looked not horrible with their faded-to-white tip, mimicking the clouds that seemed to always hover around the top of the Throat of the World, or Snow Throat to some. When I asked the kiosk manager why the mountain was called a 'throat', he answered in all seriousness, "Because,  _kaeris_ , the world you see around you came forth from that mountain. And when the world ends, the mountain will open, and swallow us all."

That particular answer was not something I would have expected. I asked him if the mountain was a 'fire-mountain', a volcano, but it wasn't, so I didn't really understand the legend, or prophecy, or whatever. No one in my party knew of any prophecies about the mountain eating the world, but together we wondered if it had anything to do with Alduin, the World Eater. Marcurio reminded me, and all the others traveling with me agreed, that traditional Nord legend claimed that Nords were created by Kyne atop that particular mountain. Most Nords knew this was a silly if not 'romantic' creation story, and that their people actually migrated to Skyrim from the northern island of Atmora, but the legend served as a sort of imagery explaining their connection to Kyne as well as Skyrim. It gave them  _claim_  to the land.

I slipped on the snow goggles and grinned at Yrsarald, who just shook his head, chuckling. I stuck my tongue out at him, a gesture I once had to explain was something of a defensive act in the face of teasing, usually done by children, but not necessarily. He had a hard time believing that even the smartest of people from my world sometimes goofily stuck out their tongues, just to be silly. I took off the goggles and put them back into my knapsack. "Ingjard forgot hers," I said, picking up her goggles. "I'm going to give them to her, and then go talk to Marc."

"What about? Can it not wait?" Yrsarald asked as he approached me, a broad smile crossing his face. His hands gripped my hips, holding me in place.

 _Lie_. "I want to give him a letter for Bird, before I forget." Yrsarald's scraggly, somewhat trimmed beard tickled my neck. I giggled. "I think I will not be thinking clearly tomorrow." I ducked away from Yrsarald's mouth and wriggled free from his grasp. I felt bad for lying, but it was the whitest of lies. I had already given Marcurio my letter for Bird.

His right hand still clung to my left, not wanting to let me out of his sight until he absolutely had to. He laughed and finally relented, easing his grip one finger at a time.

. . . . . .

"Marc, can I talk to you about something?" I asked him, voice shaking a bit. I was nervous.

My friend was alone in a single room at the inn at Ivarstead. He answered with a, "Sure, come in," and I closed the bedroom door behind me.

Some rooms at the inn had multiple beds – a mix of doubles and singles, or multiple singles – and others had just one or two beds, almost like any modern hotel in my world. There was literally no one staying at the inn when we arrived, and the innkeeper was painfully grateful for our group's patronage.

Marcurio sat me down next to him on his bed and gave me a "so, what is it?" look. I cleared my throat, feeling the butterflies in my stomach growing steadily.

"Marc," I began, "do you think…? Do you know if Yrsa wants to… ehh, you know…?" I looked at my friend, who indeed did not know, or did not make it obvious that he knew what I was about to ask. I started again, deciding to just let it all out. "Does Yrsa want to marry me?" I would have seen his cheeks flush from miles away. I didn't know, however, what his blushing meant, but I didn't waste time in asking. "I want to marry him," I said quickly, assertively, looking away. "I have wanted to marry him for a long time now. It is as if I have a hunger and all I want to do is marry him and give him as many children as I can. We have talked about children, a little, when I was with child and after Flavia was born. I know he wants children…." I left out the fact that Yrsarald was a bit hesitant, because he didn't want to bring more werebears into the world. I, contrastingly, cared little if children of his were were-anything, so long as they were ours. "And he calls me 'his unasta' which means—"

"I know what it means, Deb." He cut me off, but not brashly or with annoyance. Marcurio turned to me, his eyes glowing like heated honey with the candle light. "I'm not going to keep secrets from you. Bird and Yrsarald together did enough of that. You asked me, so…." He reached for my left hand; his fingers clasped around mine. "He does. Yrsarald wants to marry you. Even if I had not talked to him about it, I would have known he does."

"You talked to him about it?"

"Yep. Before we left for the fortress in Whiterun Hold." He smirked. "He asked me if you had told me how people ask someone to marry them in your world."

I stared wide-eyed at my friend. I had indeed told Marcurio and Bird how marriage proposals played out in my world, both the basic traditional version that I was familiar with and a few more extravagant variations. "And did you tell him!?" I asked, both excited and terrified.

He chuckled. "I did. I also told him how boring you think crystals are."

I scoffed. Crystals, otherwise known to me as diamonds.  _Izstenen_. I initially didn't believe that the same gemstones from my world existed in Skyrim, but they did. Rubies, sapphires, and emeralds, too. "I—well, alright, true, yes, I do."

"I thought he was going to ask you while we were in Whiterun for so long. It was on or about your birthday. It didn't happen, though."

"I thought… I thought about how he was acting, after…. Under that tree, Gildergreen. He was nervous and his words were… cut up and strange. At the time I didn't know what in Oblivion he was talking about, but later…. But I never asked him about it. I am too uncertain of myself."

"I think too much happened. If I were a Jarl in Whiterun then, I would have been nervous, too. Combine that with the desire to ask someone to marry him… it was a terrifying time for Yrsarald, no doubt."

"And Ralof and Stenvar were there," I added. Marcurio and I shared a knowing look. "I think Yrsa gets… less sure of himself when he thinks of, I don't know, the possibility of me being with a man who is not him. As if he is not good enough for me. He is, but I think he doesn't like himself a little bit. It is difficult to explain."  _He doesn't think he is worthy of true love because of what he is,_ I added to myself.

"He knows you love him. He doesn't think you will say no to marrying him. This knowledge doesn't make asking the question any easier."

"So…," I twiddled my thumbs, "will he? Ask me? I leave in the morning."

"I don't think so. Not before you go. Perhaps when you come back from Meridia's temple, but I can't know."

I bit my lip. "What if I ask him?"

Marcurio's brow raised in surprised, but he soon warmed to the idea. "Yes, what if?"

"How do you do that here? Do you just ask? Buy a ring? You told me about you and Bird going to Riften, but is there a tradition in Skyrim for this? I do not think I have the money for a ring…."

He giggled. "Not a ring, no. If you two get married in the Temple of Mara like Bird and I did, you will receive rings blessed by the goddess, but besides that nobody buys rings, not for only being intended to marry."

I knew that Marcurio and Bird thought my country's custom to be odd and even wasteful. Something indoctrinated into me made me desire a ring, but I couldn't disagree that the custom was somewhat pointless, and disgustingly based entirely and simultaneously both in rabid capitalism and in my world's patriarchal roots. If it  _wasn't_ based on the incredibly ancient tradition of a father passing ownership of a daughter to her new husband, the oldest known practice happening in ancient Mesopotamia, an engagement ring would have been required for  _both_  people in the relationship. Well, at least that was my understanding of the custom. I still wanted a damn ring, though, even if I had already gone through that whole dance with Greg.

"If you want to be… very traditional," Marcurio continued, "you should wear an Amulet of Mara, the same necklace that we found on that Stormcloak soldier. But you should not wear it everywhere – just in front of Yrsarald."

"Huh? Why would I wear that? Where do you get one? What does wearing it mean?"

Apparently, the Amulet of Mara was what people wore in Skyrim when they wanted to announce themselves as 'single and looking'. If they didn't care who they attracted, they could wear the amulet in public, and anyone interested could then feel free to say so. It was the equivalent of wearing a sign that said, "Please, hit on me. I desire it, and maybe I will desire you!" Marcurio related that there was so such tradition in Cyrodiil, that people generally just got married after a period of courting or "romancing" if I understood my friend correctly. And, in the case of his own parents, who immigrated to Skyrim only a few years before Marcurio was born there, their marriage had been arranged by their parents, something that I commented was "an old tradition" and not common in most lands in my world anymore.

"Anyway," Marcurio smiled softly as he spoke, "if you wear it only for him, he will know what it means, and no one else will think you are looking for someone else."

"Alright. I think I can do that. But where do I get one?"

"I will get one for you," he declared with a prideful air, as if being able to retrieve the item for me was an honor. "I will keep it for you until you return to Windhelm. Consider it my wedding gift to you," he added with a wink. "Ah, speaking of gifts…."

Marcurio stood to retrieve something from his knapsack. He turned, and handed me a long, shallow wooden box that was latched at the front and tied tightly with a long leather thong. "It's from me and Brey. Do  _not_  open it until you are settled in your room, alone, tomorrow night," he warned in a light but completely serious tone. When I asked why, he only said, "Trust me," and snickered to himself.

I sighed and stuffed the box in my mage's robe pocket.

. . . . . .

I moaned as I held onto Yrsarald, fingers clinging to his chest hair as I bucked my way to ecstasy. For aided balance, he held on firm to my breasts. Eventually during the evening, I stopped caring that Calder, posted outside our bedroom door at the inn, could hear everything. My final release blared out from my lungs and I pulled too tight on Yrsarald's chest hair, I knew I did, but his body didn't seem to notice.

I didn't heal away our exhaustion. I reveled in it. Panting in sync, we lay in a sweaty heap on the large feather bed, unwilling to move until we both admitted the need to gulp down some water. I knew I had stayed up way too late for someone looking forward to a long hike the next day, but neither of us wanted to succumb to sleep. Not yet.

Between the two of us, we emptied the water jug, and Yrsarald had to send Calder for a refill.

While waiting, I accidentally allowed reality back into my mind. "Three months…," I muttered.

"It will go by quickly for you," Yrsarald answered as he tugged on a pair of lightweight linen trousers. "You will be learning. I, however, do not even have a war to fight at the moment. I suppose I will spend my time worrying about Windhelm, for a change."

"You have known only war almost all your life."

"Like a true Nord," he exclaimed with a tiny, facetious giggle as he lay back down. He was teasing himself, because he was the epitome of a stereotypical Nord. Minus the werebear thing. Or, perhaps, that enhanced his Nordness.

I chuckled and turned over on the bed, pressing along his side and draping my left arm over his sweaty chest. A knock on the door signaled Calder's return, and we shared a few more gulps of water before finally admitting to ourselves that we should try to sleep.

. . . . . .

Standing in the middle of the bridge that connected Ivarstead and the mountain base, I stared at the stone steps that awaited me and Ingjard. Yrsarald was holding me from behind, staring with me. Marcurio and Calder kept a few long paces behind us, out of earshot. Wuunferth had already said his goodbyes and was seated in the back of the cart he would ride all the way back to Windhelm. Galmar left before sunrise, scouting the road that everyone but me and Ingjard would soon travel.

When I felt myself begin to cry, I turned around and clung to Yrsarald's tunic and buried my face in the fabric. Yrsarald's lips pressed to the top of my head and stayed there. The man said nothing. There was nothing left to say that hadn't already been said. No "it will be alright" or "come now, no tears". We knew better than that. Tears were going to come and nothing said was going to stop them.

We also knew that I had to go, and soon. I couldn't cry all morning, at least not where I stood. Both of us had to move on and not waste the daylight and good travel weather.

The small town had gathered to watch the scene. Pilgrims were apparently somewhat of a regular sight, but Jarls and potential Dragonborns, particularly weeping ones, were not.

Finally forcing myself away from Yrsarald's familiar warmth, I took a step back and looked up at his damp, reddened face. I let out a light laugh, because there was nothing else to do aside from cry more. I wiped away the wetness from my cheeks and did the same for my partner. Holding the sides of his face with my hands, thumbs grazing his cheeks, I looked into the man's glistening eyes before kissing him the last time for several months. I didn't let him pull me in close, however. If he wrapped me in his arms again, I would have had to force myself away a second time.

I pulled back with a pained gasp. "Go," I ordered him before covering my mouth with a hand, not trusting either of our lips to behave. "I need you to go. I can't do it, if I see you…."

He chuckled. "Alright. Alright…." He attempted to approach once more for an embrace, but I held him back.

"Please, Yrsa." Tears flooded my vision again and I squinted them away. I bent down, hoisted the heavy, bulging two-strap knapsack to my back, and cleared my throat. I stared at him a short while. "Tell me to go?" I asked, more than commanded.

His smile faded. He knew he had to be serious for my sake, just this once. Although sometimes I wondered if both of us were equally weak for each other, I still considered him stronger-willed than myself. After all, he learned how to suppress his werebear instincts, for the most part. Before saying anything else, Yrsarald peered up at the clouded-over mountaintop, or at least where he supposed it to be. Keeping his eyes on the clouds, he voiced his command. "Go."

I nodded once, and turned. Already across the bridge, waiting by some sort of small monument, arms crossed in an obvious show of impatience, was the shining and fiery Ingjard. As I walked towards her, I turned back to look at Yrsarald. He had steeled himself by then, just as he had during Ulfric's funeral. His features would have been devoid of emotion were his eyes and face not still red. I smiled at my partner, brief and warm and full of hope, before turning toward Ingjard again and crossing the second half of the short bridge. I didn't dare turn back a second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Up the mountain and reaching High Hrothgar.
> 
> Kaeris – Dearie ("little darling")  
> Unasta - Beloved  
> Izstenen - Diamonds ("ice stones")


	25. Ingjard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting, dear readers! I'm glad I waited a while before posting this chapter. It needed some tweaking on occasion, but I'm finally happy with it. (Story still on a hiatus).
> 
> As always, comments/questions/reviews are always appreciated.
> 
> A note about the Norren language: though many words are similar to Old Norse, Icelandic, Norwegian, as well as Dovahzul (Dragon Speak), the meanings of words that were transferred between Nirn and Earth so long ago were garbled to begin with, and slowly degenerated over time to form their own language. Names, in particular, carry on a tradition of 'Old Norren' (Nedic), which is closer to what Earthlings would recognize as Old Norse.

"Seven thousand steps," I muttered. "I almost wish I started counting at the first." I had been told that the path to High Hrothgar comprised seven thousand steps. Not an exact number for certain, but thereabouts, anyway. Walking up the mountain would take half the day, just as Balgruuf had said. "From dawn til midday. Well, from when we started, late afternoon…," I muttered, and then groaned. "I would never have wanted to make this journey if I didn't have to. I hate walking up mountains. It is too difficult."

"That's what a pilgrimage is, Deborah," Ingjard replied, almost chiding. "If it was easy, everyone would do it, and then the journey would not be special. People see this journey as a challenge, something worthy of blessings from Kyne, or just to tell their friends and family about. Be thankful that there are actual steps to walk on, and we are not climbing like goats on the western side."

She had a point. Though parts of our path were simply patches of dirt, stone steps were conveniently placed or even carved into the mountainside at uncertain intervals, winding up and around the eastern and southern slopes, avoiding natural outcrops of rock for a relatively easy journey. The steps were old, reportedly existing long before Talos himself made the pilgrimage to High Hrothgar. One had to pay attention, though, lest a rickety stone slab cause a fall.

Ingjard and I were perhaps one-quarter of the way up the mountain, judging by the sun's position, when I turned to look upon the land to the east. I saw Ivarstead, but I didn't see any signs of Yrsarald's caravan. I wasn't likely to, but I looked for him all the same. The horizon was clear, however, and I saw forests, groves, vast meadows, a large river and some streams, a flock of birds, and what looked like a distant farm. I realized then that the lack of chemical pollution in the atmosphere likely allowed for the expansive vista, as did the lack of light pollution allow the naked eye see every star – or hole – in the sky.

"Come along then, Dragonborn," Ingjard urged, sporting onwards and upwards in her steel armor and heavy fur cloak as if they weighed nothing. "Plaques to read; old men to meet." I heard her chuckle from several meters away.

Plaques.  _Gjarthskjalden_. There had been a few that we'd encountered so far. Shaped like an alcove that might house a statuette or other such visual piece, the monuments stood alone alongside the path. Inset within the monuments was a small stone slab with engraved Norren words. Each said something different, but all messages were about dragons and the Storm Voice, the  _Thu'um_ , what I always thought of as 'dragon words'.

The plaques told a story. While I didn't take the time to write any of the contents down, I did read them in full. " _What I wouldn't give for a camera_ ," I muttered to myself in English. When Ingjard halted, I figured she'd heard my mumblings, but she didn't turn around to raise an eyebrow or otherwise indicate her annoyance at my foreign words or grumbling tone.

As if in anticipation of me asking what was wrong, she cut a hand through the air behind her and motioned for me to stop; a single finger held upwards likely indicated the need for silence. Something was up ahead, and my bodyguard didn't like the looks of it. When Ingjard drew her sword from its scabbard, my interpretations were confirmed.

Another movement of her hand indicated for me to walk beside her. She raised her hand and pointed ahead of us, up the hill to the bend in our path. "Wolves," she whispered, barely audible.

_The Ivarsteadians were right_. I breathed the dragon word that showed me living and unliviing things. Hidden in thick brush, ready for an ambush, were at least three glowing red forms.

"They are waiting for us," I whispered to Ingjard, who nodded in reply. I frowned, not keen on killing wolves unnecessarily, but from what the townsfolk said it sounded like these wolves were known to be bloodthirsty; there was no doubt about our predicament. Kill, or be dinner. I steeled myself, and rolled up my sleeves, metaphorically speaking. "Lightning magic will stop their hearts," I asserted, not bothering to whisper. "Let me at least try. The sword can be our final option." I didn't know how to say 'last resort'.

Ingjard looked me over for a short moment before relaxing her arms and lowering her sword and shield. She nodded, giving me the go-ahead.

It had been a long while since I'd cast a spell Wuunferth called Chain Lightning. Casting the spell took some work, mainly a nearly innate understanding of lightning itself. That I could do; initially I thought it because I was familiar with electricity as it was in my world, but later I wondered if it was due to my connection to Meridia, who somehow activated or caused me to activate a lightning cloak spell upon my person. Meridia was the Lady of Light, after all. Rightly or not, I attributed my skill with lightning magic to her.

I knew I could cast the spell and cast it well, but it was dangerous amongst crowds or at short distances. The magic was non-discriminatory, and would jump to anything in its path, even more so than natural lightning would. The target would receive the brunt of the shock, and its neighbors a weaker voltage. If this spell could stop the heart of an adult human or at the very least shock them, paralyzing them for a moment, I imagined wolves would die where they stood.

Not taking any chances, I held up both of my hands in front of me, letting the magical energies ball up between my palms. Like a normal ball of lightning that could explode a tree or straw dummy, chain lightning could grow in power when recycled within the self. The result should be three dead wolves, so long as I didn't miss, which was difficult to do with this particular spell.

I couldn't account for anything that my dragon magic didn't see, but other wolves would have had to be far away for the red fog not to reveal them to me. Confident, I let the magic fly.

Even if I had missed and the lightning struck the ground or a nearby tree or bush, I imagined that the magic would do its job and bounce from target to neighbor. My fears abated when painful yelping, lasting only the briefest of moments, pierced the crisp air. I readied a regular lightning spell between my palms, just in case there were survivors.

None came, however, to my relief, and I let the energy used to create the ball of magic resorb into my body. I quickly whispered the dragon word for life, and when I saw no one and nothing ahead of us, I relaxed. "Nothing else is alive, now," I said, turning to Ingjard. "Alright to go?"

My bodyguard smiled and retrieved her knapsack, and on we went. No more wolves greeted us along the way. Bunnies, birds, a couple of mountain goats, and what I thought was a mouse or mole made appearances, however.

About halfway up the mountain, we came upon a meditating woman swathed in furs. She sat in front of a plaque.  _Kyne bjothat Paarthurnax,_ the plaque read,  _hvan sandat Mathir. Samana rathan Mathiren unitar Thu'um. Tha Dovah Kein hrithat, Dovah gon Tung_. Kyne summoned Paarthurnax, who pitied Man. Together they taught Men to use the Storm Voice. Then Dragon War stormed, Dragon against Tongue.

We continued on our way so as not to disturb the other pilgrim. Shortly after, I turned to Ingjard, who had read the plaque as well. "Who is Paarthurnax, and what do they mean by 'Tongue'?"

She shrugged. "I have no idea. The Greybeards will know."

As we hiked along, Ingjard and I chatted, although my part of the conversation was rather breathless. I had always hated hiking. Endurance  _anything_  was just never my game, particularly in the cold. Ingjard indulged me in sporadic rests, but never for more than a few minutes. My feet began to hurt when we were what I gauged as two-thirds or so up the mountain.

While nothing but snowdrifts and the occasional arctic fox crossed our path, I learned a lot about Ingjard, and she learned a lot about me. Ingjard Sorensen's favorite food was roasted goat with garlic. Mine was pizza, which she ate during our time in Whiterun. She prayed to Talos and Kyne actively. I probably should have been…. She was terribly excited about a new import from the country of Morning Wind that she had seen at Whiterun's palace called a 'flat bow', which sounded a lot like a crossbow to me. I told her how I loved to shoot with a bow and arrow, but I was horrible at it; I even admitted to nearly killing Yrsarald.

Her laughter carried on the wind. "I heard about that. You two were all the guards talked about for a while."

"Truly?"

"Of course. Everyone just assumed Yrsarald had—" She stopped both her march and speech abruptly. Turning to me, hand demurely raised to her mouth, her cheeks flushed and her eyes went wide. "Sorry, I shouldn't speak of such things so openly."

Curiosity piqued, I responded simply with, "Oh? Tell me," followed by an encouraging laugh.

"Ah, well…," she turned forward again and we continued our hike. "People knew he was with that woman, the one who we found, dead…."

"Okrith."

"Yes. I didn't know her, she left so long ago…. But people only said good things about her. I only knew Yrsarald to be alone – 'married to his job,' some said. That isn't an insult, you understand. To be so dedicated…. Well, he was respected by everyone, especially Ulfric. He was always so peaceful, but scary at the same time. Somehow  _too_ calm…. Anyway, we were all surprised when he started to… fall apart. He stopped taking care of himself. We all kind of knew it was because of a woman, but we didn't know who. We had an idea, though…." She smiled back at me. "It was different with Ulfric. Everyone knew he had a lover. It was part of our job as guards to help keep her secret, so there was no point  _varukig_  about them. Now, Yrsarald…," she chuckled, "you and he created a lot of  _varuk_  for us guards. And everyone else in the city."

"'Varuk'?"

She cleared her throat. "Ehh, talking about someone without them there. Rumors, and such."

"Ah." Gossip. Desiring to turn conversation away from my relationship, I asked her about  _her_  romantic life.

My initial answer was a hearty laugh. "None. None…. Well, Jenassa doesn't count. That was just…," she waved herself off. I wondered if she had actually wanted to make something more meaningful happen between herself and Jenassa, but Stenvar's friend was now reportedly attached at the hip to Brelyna. "Unlike my  _sister_ ," she stressed the word, perhaps indicating how very different they were, "I am not  _friea_."

"Eh?"

"What?"

"What aren't you?"

"Oh. I don't…," she huffed a laugh, "I don't want to get married. And I  _certainly_  do not want children. I don't like all that… kisses in the moonlight and flowers and poems horseshit. I'm perfectly content with what I get. Or, have gotten."

I cocked an eyebrow. "You still get… it." I laughed at my timidity.

She shook her helmeted head. "No longer. I gave my  _loft_  to Kyne, while we were in Whiterun. I am yours, Dragonborn, and no other's. Your house-servant, I mean." She cracked a smile.

"You didn't have to do that, Ingjard."

"No, I didn't."

"Won't you miss it? A woman…." I was suddenly shy, unable to just say the word 'sex',  _'fjelk_ '.

"I'm going to be constantly at your side, Deborah. At the end of the day, all I'll want is some wine."

I shot my bodyguard a stern but facetious look, and our conversation about relationships died where we stood. Desiring a less serious topic, we went back to basics. Ingjard's name meant 'inside walls' or 'indoors' – ' _ingjarthen_ '. "Why my parents named me  _that…_ ," she mumbled the unfinished thought, shaking her head. Eyleif's name meant 'eleven' – ' _eylif_ '. We touched upon the names of others, as well. Ralof was a 'calm vow' ( _rala-loft)_ , Yrsarald was a 'furious protector' ( _hyra-halde_ ), Ulfric was a 'beast ruler' ( _ulfir-rike_ ), Stenvar was a 'stone person' ( _sten-var_ ), and Jarl Balgruuf was a 'hearth fire pit' ( _bal-gruv)_. "The name fits him," Ingjard said. "Balgruuf has a fiery temper!"

My name just meant 'bee' in Hebrew and meant nothing at all in Norren.

"Perhaps you could tell everyone your name means, 'Calm! Your beer!'," she joked, giggling.

_Ra! Da bor. Da-bor-ra_. I sighed and rolled my eyes.

I began to realize that names in Skyrim were almost never literally, to-the-letter Norren words strung together, but rather hybrids or adulterated forms. Names tended to keep older or now 'poetic' forms of language, for reasons she couldn't explain. It was just tradition.

From names, we moved on to talks of family. I told Ingjard of mine back on Earth, previous relationships included. I also told her all about my wonderful dog Sam, a German Shepard mix. Ingjard loved dogs, too.

My bodyguard was thirty-three. Her sister, the wonderful Eyleif, was younger, but just by one year. Both her mother and father had red hair, too. Her mother was a seamstress and father was a farmer. Her mother died giving birth to a third child who was stillborn. Her father died several winters ago from a farming accident involving an angry bull. "How exactly their only children became warriors was a mystery to him," Ingjard related, smiling. "My father's brother's son, Gunmar, also trained as a soldier. Now he's in the Dawnguard."

"Dawn Guard?" I asked.

"They're a group of vampire hunters." Ingjard paused a moment, standing still, and then added before walking again, "Perhaps a bit like you—well, at least from what I know about you and what Meridia wants of you. Except they focus on vampires and as far as I know they don't worry about the other undead, werewolves or other such things."

"Werebeasts are not undead," I corrected her.

"Oh, I know. What I mean is that there are some people out there that hunt all kinds of… people or things that are different, that they might see as evil. There is this very  _fala_  group called the Silver Hand. I only know about it from Jenassa and Selina, who have dealt with some of them in the past. They specifically hunt werewolves."

"Just werewolves? Not werebears too? Other werebeasts?"

"Werebears?" Ingjard asked, amused. "I've never heard of were _bears_. Do they exist?"

I shrugged. "I think I read a book somewhere…."  _And the Oscar goes to…._ "So they hunt werewolves. Evil werewolves? Ones that maybe kill people's goats for food or… well, kill people?"

"No. All werewolves. They don't  _misman_."

"'Misman'?"

"Kill one and not others."

"Oh. Well that seems…," I searched for the right word, "well, it seems mean, and a little evil. I can't believe  _all_  werewolves are bad."  _They aren't_ , I said to myself, fondly remembering Selina. And Vilkas, for all his grouchiness, certainly didn't appear to be evil. Yrsarald, a born werebear, was practically the opposite of evil.

"Have you even  _met_  a werewolf?" Ingjard asked without stopping for an answer. "They are  _beasts_. I was nearly killed by one in the woods a few years ago, on  _vakte_  for the Stormcloaks before I became a city guard. I'll show you my scar, later. Nearly died from blood loss, and then infection. We didn't have any healing potions or mages with us. If I hadn't made it back to camp where they sometimes have potions that Wuunferth and others cook up, I wouldn't be here today."

My stomach tightened when I thought of the kind of wound that could almost kill a person. Having seen Yrsarald's deadly werebear claws and teeth, I had a basis for imagining the resulting of gashes. "Well, I'm glad you're here. I would be lost without someone with me now." I didn't pause for her to react, particularly to disagree out of politeness. "I am from another world, not used to doing  _any_  of the things I've done here…. Now I have to do this, go  _there_ ," I nodded upwards, "learn things…. Anyway, it is a comfort to have a friend with me."

Friend. Was Ingjard a friend? She was my servant. Then again, Galmar was Ulfric's house-servant, and they behaved like friends. They had certainly bickered like friends, or even brothers, just as Galmar did with Yrsarald. Calder and Yrsarald had a great rapport, but I wasn't sure they were friends. I decided that the term covered a wide range of relationships, and settled on the idea that Ingjard was indeed a friend to me, whether or not I was a friend to her.

She didn't react at all to my ramblings, but merely smiled. Her reaction appeared genuine. Perhaps, I thought, she was simply contended by my statement, and that was good enough for me.

"I wonder if there have been other Dragonborns," Ingjard mused. "Besides you-know-who, I mean. And, if there were, if they had house-servants."

"Maybe they had followers."

"Followers?"

"Sure. People who… well, not worshipped them. That's the wrong word. But, people who followed them on their travels, helping them or  _wanting_  to help them. True adventurers like Stenvar who ran around the world, helping people, becoming Thanes. Maybe ancient Dragonborns were actually wise people who had interesting things to say, and things to teach people." My mind suddenly turned to thinking about Jesus and the Disciples, and I couldn't help but giggle. Ingjard raised an eyebrow at me while holding a cheeky smile. "What?" I asked her.

"You are more wise than you think," she answered a moment later.

"What? No, I am  _not_  wise. I know a few things about many different things, mostly  _useless_  in this world. That does not make me wise. Not at all."

"That isn't what Yrsarald says about you," she countered, smiling. "He says that even Ulfric called you wise. Or, was it 'intelligent'? Oh, I can't remember. But they are basically the same thing. I think, Deborah, that you don't believe in this—" she jabbed the side of my forehead with her forefinger, hard, "—just as I believe in  _this_ ," she indicated her sword. "And that, my dear Dragonborn, is something you need to change. Perhaps training with the Greybeards will help."

I had no response to her critique. I knew she was right. I continually lacked faith in myself. I certainly hoped that receiving legitimate training as a Dragonborn would help with my confidence.

Not much later after our conversation about my self-esteem issues, the air grew bitterly cold and we had to tighten our fur cloaks around our bodies. Skyrim didn't fabricate scarves as I knew them, but the people here did fashion swaths of fabric to wrap around their necks and lower faces. I had to do this now, to fight against the constant cold wind. Ingjard was fine with just her cloak and helmet, however. Her Nord blood somehow made her hardened and ready for this type of weather.

Snow began to fall as tiny ice shards, somewhere between sleet and snowflakes. Or perhaps the wind was so strong that the snowflakes bore into my forehead and eyes, the only exposed portion of my face. I figured we had entered the lower cloud level, and that perhaps the clouds weren't as dense as they had appeared from below. It was not so much a cloud as a concentrated snowstorm, as odd as that was. Breathing became a bit of a struggle, and the sharp air cut my lungs with every inhalation. I wondered if the weather was supernaturally charged, a spell to ward off the weak and undetermined.

I had been walking with my head down, staring at the immediate path ahead of me (mainly Ingjard's feet), so when she stopped suddenly, naturally I crashed against her back. She turned to me with a scrunched, displeased face and quickly turned back around. I walked up to her side. "What's wrong?" I shouted over the wind.

"I thought I saw something move," she hollered back.

Wasting no time, I spoke aloud the dragon word for life. Before us, perhaps an arrow's flight away, just out of reach of my magic, stood a hulking figure. I breathed the three words together,  _'laas yah nir'_ , and the red fog remained for a longer period.

"It's big," I related to my bodyguard. "Just one big thing."

"How big? Dragon?"

"No, but bigger than a person."

"Fuck," Ingjard spat. "I'll bet it's a fucking frost troll."

"Frost troll?"

"In mountains or far up north you find all sorts of white-furred animals." She spoke close to my ear. "Foxes, rabbits, birds, bears, mountain cats, and even gods-damned trolls." She unsheathed her sword and raised her shield. "I've had many of them die by my hand, but they're strong, stronger than you might think."

"I was attacked by a regular troll, once," I recalled. "It was just—"  _just before I was raped_ , I finished, silently. "It stepped on me and broke a rib. I got away, though."  _Because my rapist shot it down with arrows._

"Well I'm here now, and you are a trained mage. Cast a fire spell – your strongest. Fire hurts them like no other weapon, and my sword will kill it quickly and easily afterwards. Just set it on fire somehow, and I'll cut it down."

I was immensely thankful that Ingjard knew a lot about particular points of combat.  _Who's intelligent now?_  I said to myself. I thought, quickly, about what type of spell to cast. Fire was  _not_  my element. It had taken me ages to learn how to cast fire spells, including the ones to light fires or ignite candles. The  _simplest_ ones.

_Fire rune_ , I decided. I silently recalled the Elven words for casting a fire rune far away from myself, and not wasting more time, I pushed forth my palms and shouted, " _A var dagon as baune molag mino!_ " Shouting was required for me, personally, to cast the spell correctly, and to give it enough power to do more than singe fur.

I watched the snow ahead of us steam in reaction to the circular rune. As if on cue, the white form in the distance roared. It sounded like a lion. A very, very angry lion. I whispered, " _Laas_ ," a reaction to the mental image of a stampeding troll, and sure enough the form was gaining on us, and quickly. "It's coming!" I shouted, backing away from Ingjard but readying a lightning ball all the same. I knew she wanted to take down the troll herself, but I wasn't going to leave us vulnerable if she failed.

Within seconds, the beast galloped on all fours right at the rune, perhaps having no understanding of what the patterns melted into the snow meant. The explosion was violent, and the troll screamed. The sound was almost human, and made my skin crawl. I had my lightning magic ready to cast, but the events that followed were too quick for me to react in time. The troll, completely aflame, set upon Ingjard with swinging arms and claws extended. Ingjard's steel sword pierced through the white fluff, into what I figured the beast's heart, or perhaps its left lung. The troll fell flat on its face, stone cold dead… but still on fire.

Ingjard was swordless, but looked utterly pleased with herself. "See," she laughed, planting her gloved fists on her steeled hips, "easy." She nodded to the flaming carcass. "Well, do you have a water spell, or something?"

Without an answer, I cast a simple frost spell upon the troll, the same one that had scarred Yrsarald's chest. The troll's flame cloak was doused, and Ingjard grunted as she kicked the troll to its back and wiped her sword clean on its blackened pelt.

"Alright, then," she chirped. "Onward."

I grumbled under my breath, exhausted from casting the powerful rune spell, but trudged on nonetheless.

Soon we were on the western slope, I realized, and I could just make out the ruins of Riverwood far below. This was also when the temperature dropped considerably, even though we had breached the low cloud canopy as well as the tree line and were bathed in strong sunlight. I laughed victoriously at myself for having bought the snow goggles. Almost immediately upon passing the subalpine zone, everything cleared, and the snow-laden path was painfully bright. Unfortunately, I realized just how hard it was to see out of the slotted wooden cups. Ingjard tried them in earnest, but quickly removed them once she realized she would be unable to defend me while wearing them. She thanked me for them all the same, though, and kept them for the future, just in case.

Not long after, we were winding around the mountain to the northern slope, and the city of Whiterun was just barely visible. Our journey for the next hour, or something like that, was an uneventful one, if shivering uncontrollably under fur travel clothes and a fur cloak was not eventful. Occasionally I cast a small amount of healing magic upon myself, just in case my exposed upper face was getting frostbit from the relentless wind and bursts of snow that gusts blew off of cliffs and boulders. We passed by a handful more of the small plaques, but I had no mind to read them. I was too fucking cold.

Finally, from behind a veil of blowing snow that seemed timed specifically for our arrival, a grey mass appeared. At first my tearing eyes thought the grey was just more mountain, but I soon realized that the top was perfectly rectangular.  _Fortress_. The building became clearer once we were blocked from the wind by a cliff, and I spotted a statue of Talos to my right. I glanced briefly at the stone god, acknowledging him and the plaque at his feet, but I had to move on. The fortress was right there, waiting, seated at the top of the time-worn stone steps that Ingjard and I had somehow managed to not trip over.

Not wasting more time in the blasted cold, I stomped up one of the two curved stone staircases, passing a large wooden chest that was set between them. Marching toward what I hoped were unlocked doors, I breathed a pained sigh of relief when I reached the top of the steps. I pressed my palm to the frozen iron double-door, but stopped myself. I turned to Ingjard, who was catching up with me.

"Should I knock?" I asked her, suddenly feeling a bit too sure of myself. I hadn't been summoned to the fortress as Torug had, after all. A thought then occurred to me for the first time, and I spun fully toward Ingjard and grasped her shoulders. "What if Torug is inside!?"

"Deb, if that Orc is inside this fortress, I'll run him through myself. Now go inside, for Kyne's  _skil_!"

Lips pursed in indecision, I soon exhaled all of my worries, and pushed. The door was locked. "F-fuck," I growled, stomping a foot. I tried the other door. Same. I knocked loudly, pounding my fist against the door, but after waiting a moment, nothing happened. I turned to my bodyguard. "What should I do?"

"There's another set of doors." Ingjard trotted down the stone steps, and then up the other curved staircase. "Locked, too!" she shouted before returning. Panting, she suggested, unsure, "Shout the dragon words?"

_See, you're the intelligent one_. "Alright, but…," I turned back to the door, and then looked around as best I could through the blowing snow. "To who? Where? If I shout at a window it will break."

"I don't know, Deb. Shout to the sky. Call to Kyne." The woman had a point. Again.

After all, these were Kyne's words, I had learned from Jarl Balgruuf. Perhaps if the goddess heard me, the door would open. Or, if not, then at least her monks inside would open the door for me, I hoped.

Taking several steps back and removing my snow goggles, I looked to the sky just above the fortress. A solid white-grey expanse of fluff, concentrated over the tallest peak of the mountain, glowed back down at me, but the rest of the sky was clear. Knowing I should really give the words power, I allowed myself time to work up the lung capacity. Breathe in, breathe out. Shouting, actually shouting the words made them more powerful, just as speaking the whisper-words aloud made the red fog last longer, glow stronger. I hadn't needed training to figure that one out.

I closed my eyes; the sky was too bright for me. Breathe in, breathe out. I thought about which words to use. Power, or fire? Fire was a dragon's most natural weapon. Power was something even Ulfric had in his voice. Power, perhaps, the Greybeards would recognize as something a human might shout. Breathe in. I recalled the fragile little farming town, Ivarstead, snug at the foot of the mountain I now stood atop. Breathe out. I saw myself shouting the words of power that created thunder, and watched in my mind's eye the little mountain town get swallowed alive by an avalanche.  _Just like the kiosk guy said,_  I recalled, utterly astounded and terrified that I might have unintentionally killed a few dozen people, some livestock, and three stabled horses.

_Fire it is, then_. Breathing in, slowly, one last time, I imagined a ball of fire spouting forth from my lungs.  _Yol, toor, shul_. In the instant before I released the inferno from my lungs, I recalled that I probably could have used this shout on that frost troll. I ignored my own nagging and let loose the dragon words upon the sky in quick succession. The three syllables flowed easily from my lips. The ball of fire, dashing towards the sky, cut through the small patch of clouds and disappeared.

And then, nothing happened. Growing impatient, instead of shouting a second time I relied on good old human desperation, and banged my fists furiously against the huge, heavy, cold iron doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gjarthskjald - plaques  
> Varukig - gossiping  
> Varuk - gossip  
> Friea - romantic  
> Loft - vow  
> Fala - secretive  
> Misman - They discriminate  
> Vakte - patrol  
> Skil - sake


	26. Introductions

**Chapter 26 – Introductions**

My gloved fists were nearly numb by the third time I banged against the door with dire ferocity. Our tent was back in Ivarstead with our horses, and making the trip down would be a horrible, frozen defeat. I called out to the Greybeards – "Hello!? Are you inside? I am Dragonborn! Did you not hear me!?" – still, no one came.

Forgetting the danger it might have posed to Ivarstead and its inhabitants, I shouted a single, strong " _Fus!"_  to the sky, and waited another eternal moment for a response from within. Thankfully, to the best of my knowledge, no avalanche occurred. Losing my patience again, I pounded a fist slowly against the iron door. My forehead soon followed. I began to sob.

"Deborah, enough," Ingjard consoled, a hand patting my shoulder and the other attempting to prevent me from giving my frontal lobe a concussion. "Something is not right, or else they would have answered."

"They just don't want me," I decided, voice muted. "They wanted Torug. He is the true Dragonborn. I'm just me. I'm… a second thought."

Only then did it occur to me to breathe the dragon word for 'life'. " _Laas_ ," I whispered with a final burst of hope, and gasped when I saw it. Two large forms, appearing human, stood directly behind the door. I was suddenly a bit scared, but I still needed to get inside soon lest my nose turn black and fall off. Once more, I cried out to the people inside who I assumed were the Greybeards.

"Please! I see you! Two of you, so close to the door! You may not know me but I am blessed by your goddess. I am Dragonborn, but not like the Orc who you called to so long ago. I am a Child of Akatosh, a mage trained at Winterhold. I am Champion of Meridia. I need your help, Greybeards, to understand more about who and what I am! Please, open this door!" I ended my plea with a strong repetition of " _Fus!_ ", mouth pointed toward the sky, and left it at that. If they didn't want me now, they never would.

For all I knew, Torug stood behind that door, a born disciple of the monks. He could have easily warped the men's minds against me, and I would indeed end up standing out in the cold to freeze.

An unexpected blast came from the sky. Or, more precisely, it seemed, from the cloud-concealed pinnacle. The sound reverberated between mountain peaks and against the fortress, hurting my ears and head, rumbling my insides. The effect was similar to when Ulfric had shouted at that dragon, but stronger. The effect was caused by someone shouting the words,  _fus, ro, dah._ I was certain. I had heard the words.

I turned again to the sky, looking toward the hidden peak. Someone or something – a Greybeard, likely – was set atop the mountain, and he was communicating. Perhaps he was communicating with me. I hoped that the communicator was not Torug.

Not wanting to personally be blamed for an avalanche, I decided against another round of shouting the dragon word for 'power' and instead sent forth a second ball of fire toward the patch of clouds. Surely, the Greybeards inside the fortress were hearing this, perhaps even watching through small windows.

When nothing further happened after the exchange of dragon words, I sat down on the stone, huddled against the iron door, and curled into myself. Though the stone and iron were freezing to the touch even through my gloves and trousers, the inset doorway offered some protection from the wind. Ingjard joined me at my side and we pressed to each other, maneuvering our cloaks so that we shared our body heat.

"I took into me a dragon's soul," I murmured, more for myself than for Ingjard's ears. "It happened when I touched his body. Viinturuth, he was called. I felt him die in his final memory." I shuffled a bit, tugging the cloak's hood tighter around my face and fixing the scarf so that only my eyes were exposed. I again healed my face of potential frostbite.

"I learned some dragon words from his memories," I continued. "My memories. They became mine…. Shared memories. I suppose part of his soul is now my soul." The thought was a perplexing one, and I had hoped to get solid answers about what was going on with my body and soul from the men in the fortress. If they couldn't, wouldn't help me, I had no one else but Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun to confide in.

"Balgruuf called the Shouts a  _Thu'um_ , which means 'Storm Voice' in the dragon language. I can understand why, too. Ulfric shouted thunder. Someone on that mountain peak is shouting thunder. That dragon at Helgen, Alduin, shouted thunder. I, so they tell me, shout thunder." I recalled something Stenvar once told me. "We all thought Ulfric was something like Talos, Shouting and wanting to be king. But, then, Torug was called here, not Ulfric. Ulfric  _knew_  he was not the one called. He understood the sounds in the earth-shake, somehow. I didn't, but… would I, now? In the thunder from the mountain peak just now I heard thunder  _and_  words. They were difficult to hear, but I heard them. I felt them. What does that mean?" I was rambling, but I didn't care. "If you do not let me in now I will possibly freeze to death." I sighed, and watched the puff of breath dissipate. "That is alright. Without your help I will be killed by Torug, anyway."

The place was silent but for the wind and blowing snow. Slowly, more clouds encroached and threatened to take away my precious sunlight. I sorely wished for Yrsarald, and his radiating body heat.

"Another moment, Deborah, and I suggest we return to Ivarstead." Ingjard turned to me and squeezed my adjacent hand.

A heavy clunking noise startled us both, and I nearly jumped into Ingjard's lap. I looked around and above me before I realized that the sound originated from the door. A lock mechanism was turning.

Breath held firmly in my lungs, I spun to my feet and waited for the door to open. When the doors finally creaked inward, I stared right back at the two figures that had been standing behind the door, waiting for some sort of better reason to open it for me. Apparently, I gave it.

The men were both Nords, or perhaps High Rock folk. I couldn't tell. They were old, so very old – wrinkled and wizened and, unsurprisingly, grey-bearded. They were both dressed in very heavy, grey hooded cloth robes. The man who opened the door stared me down, obviously neglecting to speak first, or speak at all. The man standing behind him, however, bowed slightly with his palms outstretched to either side.

"Thank you for opening the door," I said briskly as my jaw began to chatter. The occlusal surfaces of my teeth banged together repeatedly until I forced my jaw to relax. "May we please come inside? I will soon lose my nose to the cold. My name is Deborah. I am Dragonborn. I come here seeking your help."

Without a word, the two old men stepped aside. "Come in," their body language said simultaneously. The man in the back was smiling. The man in front was not.

Ingjard and I trotted into the foyer, passing the men who subsequently rotated a large brass mechanism. A loud  _clack_ signaled its locked position. No key could ever open those doors.

Grunting with sudden relief, I shed my knapsack and cloak and immediately let in whatever heat the fortress offered from nearby lit braziers. "Thank you," I said again, turning to the men. "This is Ingjard," I indicated with a nod as she placed her sheathed sword by our heaped belongings, "my house-servant. She travels with me. Please," I nearly begged, approaching the men, "say something so I know everything is alright. I worry that I am upsetting you, or that I am in trouble."

"They cannot speak," came a new, raspy voice from the shadows. I turned to find the man who owned it. "Should they speak, your companion here would lose her hearing. You would, too, if you are not who you claim."

"I am," I asserted, posture righted. "At least, I took in a dragon's soul and can shout the dragon words. If that is not what a Dragonborn is, then…."

"You are not who we expected," the man changed the subject.

"You mean the Orc, Torug. I thought he maybe answered your call long ago."

"How do you know we called to him?"

"The ground shook. I forget how long ago…. Perhaps half of one year. Ulfric Stormcloak knew it was you, calling to the Dragonborn. He appeared upset that it wasn't his name that was being called."

The old man froze a moment, but then relaxed. "Ulfric…," he repeated, gaze briefly falling to the floor. "You know Ulfric Stormcloak? Of Windhelm?"

My mouth opened to speak but I faltered for a moment, considering my words carefully. “Yes, I knew Ulfric Stormcloak. He and I, we were… we survived a dragon attack together. He helped me…..” I frowned, wondering what else to say. “He was a good man.” I wasn’t about to speak ill of him to the Greybeards.

The old man processed my response. "Was," he repeated.

I nodded, and then hesitated. "I'm sorry, what is your name?"

"Arngeir," the man offered immediately. "Behind you are Masters Borri and Wulfgar. Master Einarth and our newest apprentice Uthyr are out in the courtyard, practicing."

I turned around to the men behind me. "An honor to meet you, Masters," I said with a tiny bow of the head. Balgruuf had mentioned their titles, and I was glad to have remembered the word for 'master',  _kine_. It was the same word for 'leader'.

I turned back to Arngeir. "I'm truly sorry to bring you such sad news, but Ulfric is no longer living. His military advisor is Jarl of Windhelm, now."

Arngeir frowned, but only slightly, and the reaction was short-lived. "Ulfric had such promise. The war changed everything. I knew he had fallen from the Way after he left. I felt it."

"But Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun says he thinks well of you," I added in a cheerful tone. "He is a very wise… intelligent man. And kind, too, from what I have learned of him. He told me about the words, the dragon words, how they are a gift from Kyne. Kynareth. Ulfric died before I knew… well, too soon after the dragon's soul entered me."

"Please, come in, sit," Arngeir asked of me and Ingjard as he and the other Greybeards led us a bit past the entrance through an open, square foyer and to a small lounge area with some stone chairs. Ingjard and I both literally took a load off and exhaled with immense pleasure upon getting off our feet.

"Masters," I began, "I know this is possibly the wrong time to tell you this…. Or, perhaps it is the only good time. Perhaps it doesn't matter…. But, you should know. Torug, the Orc Dragonborn, he killed Ulfric. Killed him almost immediately after I took in the dragon's soul. He was upset, you understand, because I took 'his' dragon soul. He wanted it for himself. We also think he had already held some hatred for Ulfric, and when he realized who he was, standing up in my defense, Torug just killed him. It was awful. Blood everywhere. He was too fast for any of us to stop. Too strong. He shouted something and then became like a ghost, and we never saw him again. No one ever found him. He disappeared. But then he – well, we think it was him – he led some people in an attack on one of Skyrim's biggest cities, Markarth. The Jarl, almost all people there, we think are dead. Torug is using his power to do awful things."

I hadn't expected to speak to the Greybeards against Torug, just as I had feared Torug might have done so against me, but everything I was saying were facts. The truth came out of me as if it had a mind of its own, as if some fairy whispered in my ear "tell them  _everything_."

The men around me stared a moment, absorbing the awful news. I took the free moment to commit to memory the names and faces of the old men around me. Arngeir was the only one of the three to have tied his long grey beard into a knot. He appeared older than Borri, but younger than Wulfgar. Borri's cheekbones were sharper and set higher than those of the others, and he was shorter. Wulfgar also had high, wide cheekbones, but his face was so wrinkled it camouflaged their starkness. He was shorter than Borri, perhaps due to his advanced age. His beard was the bushiest of them all. I wondered what the fourth Greybeard, Einarth, looked like, and what kind of apprentice he was working with. No doubt whoever Uthyr was, he was a Greybeard in training, and not someone like me or Torug. And then, sitting facing three men and awaiting meeting two more, I wondered where all the female 'Greybeards' were.

Borri lowered his head in apparent mourning or other such sadness. Arngeir, however, appeared troubled. "I have heard tales that Ulfric used the Voice to conquer cities and people as well. He died how he lived."

"No," I shook my head, appalled at the notion that the Jarl got what he deserved. Ulfric was never the best example of a human being, but he was nowhere evil enough to deserve a death so horrific. "Torug used his war-hammer to smash in Ulfric's head. There was no 'shout' or any words at all of the dragon kind used against Ulfric. Only one war-hammer."

Arngeir finally frowned. "I see." He fell quiet, then.

"Masters, Meridia has instructed me to train with you, here, for three months. After this time, I am to go to her temple to fight away an evil presence there. And when I am ready, I am told I will be able to take revenge for Ulfric, and kill Torug. But I cannot ever go against Torug unless I am trained. He is too strong, just because he is an Orc, and I am a human. Yes, I am a powerful mage, but I am also not an idiot. I need your help. Aside from Torug killing people and stealing cities, dragons are attacking Skyrim. My friend's town burned to the ground, and Windhelm was attacked by two dragons at the same time. Please, I need your help, so that I can help Skyrim. I want to be able to kill a dragon alone, if I have to. I want to help people. I want to save people from Torug, who doesn't help anyone but himself and the Forsworn, who are killers and rapists. I want to save Skyrim from the undead. Yes, there are undead, and necromancers. I am not just doing this to get revenge for Ulfric, but I wanted to be honest with you and tell you what happened, who Torug truly is."

The men sat motionless for a while, but then Borri waved his arms and hands about in such a way that I thought I could recognize a sort of sign language. Arngeir waited for the old man to finish his movements, and then nodded at his colleague. "Master Borri says that the Voice is sacred. Weapons are made for war. The Voice is not a weapon." Arngeir turned to me. "He means to say, that while the Way does not speak against war, it does warn against using the Voice for the purposes of war, or battle, or any such combat, unless you are in True Need."

"Yes, Balgruuf told me this."

"And yet you ask us to train you in the Way of the Voice so that you may defeat Torug, another blessed by Kyne."

I bit down on my tongue, hard, abstaining from uttering brash words. "Torug is a horrible person.  _He_ is using his power for bad things.  _He_ is using 'The Voice' in battle. Torug never came here. He ignored you.  _I_  am here to train with you. This is what I was instructed to do. There is also the matter of the black dragon Alduin," I added for good measure, hoping to help my seemingly dead argument. "Alduin nearly killed me years ago. Ulfric, too. He is… not friends, but… attached to other dragons who hate mortals. These dragons want to kill us all. I learned this from the memories of the dragon whose soul is inside mine. I think… I think I need help to defeat dragons. I had help killing that one in Windhelm…. Torug is fated by the gods to kill Alduin, the World-Eater. I am not. But if Torug did not come here, he may never go after Alduin. Instead, he may go after me, after other people…." I sighed, frustrated. "But, the main reason why I am here is to train so that I can 'save the world', as Meridia said to me. An evil is coming. I think it is already here…." I studied Arngeir's concentrated face. "Do you know what is happening? With the worlds? Mundus, Aetherius, Oblivion, they are all going to fall into one another if I and my friends cannot stop it and find the Eye of Magnus. I have to lead my friends against necromancers and the undead. If I cannot use the powers that Kyne has given me, then I will fail, and…. I do not want to think about what will happen to the world if we fail."

The corner of Arngeir's wrinkled upper lip twitched upward in the hint of a smile, but the man was soon frowning again. "I will meet with Wulfgar, Borri, and Einarth, and we will discuss what to do with you. For now, please remain here. If you have any needs to see to, please feel free to use the room just to the left, here." At that, Arngeir rose from his stone chair and set out with his silent companions at his back.

The room to the left, as I learned from sheer curiosity, was a latrine and washroom. I did make use of it. The water was ice cold, but nonetheless refreshing. The stone latrine seat, however, made for a shocking sensation, and I yelped from the cold that bit my bottom. I should have known better.

Curious and seeking to kill some time, I gazed down into the latrine's abyss. Surely the hole was dug very deep, as over time the accumulation of leavings would freeze and build up, creating a mountain of unpleasantness. Feeling brave, I sent down a small burst of Magelight. On it went until it disappeared, indicating that the abyss made a turn somewhere. I sent down more light. Nothing was there to see but a passageway of stone. I was impressed.

In palaces, latrines were connected to brass-colored pipes and valves that worked almost as well as indoor plumbing in my world, though relying a bit more on gravity. I was told that the pipes were an invention of the Dwemer, an extinct people. In inns and houses, latrines (if they had them) were just seats over holes in the ground that had to be emptied often by someone with a strong stomach, which was often someone paid to do such a task. Most of the time, people just used chamber pots or buckets that were emptied in very specific places in the town or village.

A knock came at the door. Ingjard needed the washroom. I was too nervous to sit alone, waiting for the men's deliberations, and instead busied myself by browsing book titles I saw on shelves in the little lounge.

"'The Third Era Timeline'," I read aloud one title, caressing the bindings with my fingertips as I traipsed along the length of the bookshelves. "'Something…'s Guide to Skyrim'." Not understanding the title, I opened the book. Inside were illustrations of plants, and I assumed it to be a guide to the various uses of flora. An alchemist's guide. I wondered if the Greybeards dabbled in alchemy. "'Something from the Thalmor'." I opened the book to the first page.

 _Dearest reader_ , it read.  _The work you are about to…_.  _"Blah, blah blah,_ " I mumbled, and read on. At the bottom of the introduction was a signature. Letters below the signature spelled out the sounds  _Ashad Ibn Khaled_.

"Ibn?" I asked myself. "Ibn, ibn, ibn…." I knew I had heard that word somewhere, sometime, long ago. It took a while, but in my memory I eventually heard Antonio Banderas explain what it meant to a band of twelve Vikings.  _It means 'son of'._

" _Son of_ ," I murmured, lapsing into English. "Ibn.  _What the hell is Arabic doing here?_ "

"What?" Ingjard asked when she returned.

Turning to her, I stared wide-eyed and pointed at the introduction-writer's name. "Ibn," I repeated. "It is a word of a language from  _my_  world.  _MY_ world, Ingjard. Why is this here!?"

Ingjard turned to peer at the page, and shrugged. "I don't know." She turned again to the book, and flipped the page. "It's not old. Look, here, it talks about the Great War. It can't be very old. Perhaps someone else came through, like you did? Maybe not long ago."

I stared at my bodyguard. "Maybe." I turned back to the book. "Maybe not. I don't know if 'ibn' is used anymore. I suppose it is. It is not the language of my land, but another." I shook my head, disbelieving. "It is like your language… and a very old language from my world. They are very similar. They are connected. I don't know how, but they are. I am certain ideas from Nirn came to my world, but…." My fingers brushed over the signature, which was not written in Arabic but in the typical way Tamrielians signed. "Maybe this man, or his father...? Maybe they came from my world."

Behind us, someone cleared his throat. The gears of my brain jerked to a halt and I slammed the book shut and thrust it back onto the bookshelf. "Apologies," I blurted. "I like books."  _I like books._ I mentally kicked my brain in the cerebellum.

Arngeir of the knotted beard smirked and recommenced sitting, urging with his hands for Ingjard and me to do the same. Borri and Wulfgar soon entered the room. They were trailed by an even older, shorter, beardier man, who was certainly Einarth. To the side of the fourth Greybeard was a young, skinny man of perhaps twenty who resembled Colin Firth, complete with curly hair.

"Deborah, Ingjard, this is Master Einarth and Apprentice Uthyr. Young Uthyr wishes to join our order. He is what we call a Tongue." Focusing on me, Arngeir asked, "Do you know what that means?"

"Tongue? Ehh, well, not outside of the mouth, no."

"It means I possess the  _Thu'um,_ " Uthyr answered. "My father is a Nord. I suppose I got it from him, as well as from Kynareth. I can Shout as the Greybeards can, as Tiber Septim could."

"Through study and prayer, Uthyr can one day hope to grasp the meaning of several Words of Power, if he is lucky." Arngeir nodded to Einarth and Uthyr, and the pair left the lounge. "You, on the other hand, have already done more than that on your own, so we have heard, and felt."

Looking up, I saw Borri smile.

"Kyne has blessed you," Arngeir continued in all seriousness. "Our  _samgalethon_  agrees, and our  _Lotkine_  Paarthurnax commands – you will be permitted to stay."

The room fell silent. I followed Arngeir's gaze, unsure if he was finished speaking, or if he expected me to say something in response. I wasn't understanding everything the man had said, but I understood "stay" loud and clear. The mention of Paarthurnax, whose name was inscribed on one of the plaques en route to High Hrothgar, grabbed my attention more than their abiding my arrival.

"Thank you," was what I said, baulking at other words and thoughts. I waited for further instructions or other such wise words from the Greybeards. When none came, a question plaguing my mind pushed its way out of my mouth. "Who is Paarthurnax?"

. . . . . .

"Well they're very  _fala,_ aren't they?" Ingjard remarked, clearly annoyed by their oracular answer to my simple question.

We were unpacking my few belongings in a small, Spartan bedroom, a room that was used by Talos himself. It was the only closed bedroom in the entire fortress. Ingjard would have to sleep with the rest of the Greybeards in the common area that housed two dozen beds. Those beds, as well as my own, were made of stone. Placed on top of the stone slabs were very thick mattresses, likely stuffed with alternating layers of cloth and feathers, or perhaps cotton. Ingjard had half a mind to move her mattress to the hallway in front of my bedroom; I wasn't about to dissuade her.

"What is 'fala'?" I asked my bodyguard.

"It means they are hiding something."

"Mm. I think I know what 'Lotkine' means. Savos Aren at Winterhold was the 'Lot-Laza', in charge of everything. Whoever Paarthurnax is, he—" I cut myself off, halted in folding my cloak. I turned wide-eyed to Ingjard.

"What?" she asked, chuckling.

"Those plaques on the path were about the Dragon War."

"Yes, and?"

I tossed my cloak onto my bed and approached her. "The plaques mentioned someone named Paarthurnax."

Ingjard blinked, and then, a brief moment later, exclaimed a wordless, gasping signal of having experienced an epiphany. "Paarthurnax is a god!"

"A god!?"

"Well, how else can someone be alive through more than three eras!? Even High Elves don't live that long."

I studied the woman, considering her conclusion. "I don't think so, Ingjard."

"Well, why not?"

"The plaque said that Paarthurnax taught people to use the  _Thu'um_. The dragon words." I stared at my bodyguard, eyes insistent. "Dragon. Words."

Ingjard's eyes sparkled as she smiled. "He's Akatosh!" she breathed.

"Akatosh?"

"The Dragon God. Oh, it makes sense. Yes, of course. The Dragon God is the teacher of the Dragon Words to men.  _You_  are his 'child'," she said the word with a hint of jest, "so of  _course_  Akatosh would want you to be allowed to stay."

"Ingjard, if Akatosh was here on the mountain, do you not think he would have told the Greybeards that I was coming?"

"Ehh, maybe?"

I shook my head, and slumped onto my solitary chair. I peered up at my overly-enthused bodyguard. She looked as if she was about to burst with excitement. "I think Paarthurnax is a dragon, living on the top of the mountain."

The light in Ingjard's eyes faded, somewhat. "A dragon? Just a dragon?"

I shrugged. "Why not? Maybe dragons live for a long time. Whatever he is, he is on that high peak, the one covered by clouds. Perhaps he brings clouds there to hide himself. Because he is a dragon."

"Or because he is a god. Think about it – the leader of the Greybeards is more likely to be a god than just a dragon."

"People once thought dragons  _were_  gods, did they not?"

"Doesn't mean they are."

I sighed, and reached across to my table where my knapsack sat. I stroked one of the straps for no reason at all. "I suppose it does not matter, god or dragon. He wanted me to stay."

"'Commanded it', I believe their words were."

I turned back to the woman. "Do you think you will sleep in the hallway?"

"Do you think I need to?"

I looked at the open doorway and smirked. "I don't think they want to kill me in my sleep."

"No, I suppose not." Ingjard picked up her knapsack and made to leave, but soon stopped short and turned back around. "I think I will sleep outside your bedroom, just for tonight at least. You know, just in case." And then, she was gone, shutting the door behind her.

As I unpacked the rest of my things, I found the small package that Marcurio had given me. A gift from him and Brelyna. I had completely forgotten about it until I laid eyes on it just then. It took me a while to get the tight knot in the leather thong undone. When the latch loosed and the lid popped open, I stared at the item inside for a good few minutes.

The lining of the box was polished black leather, and it created a sort of pocket for the item laid inside. The object nested within was of beige-grey colored stone, carved, and highly polished. The object was slightly longer than my hand, and appeared quite heavy. Picking it up, the weight was even more considerable than I had guessed. I ran a palm over one of the ends. Very smooth, and softly pointed before widening quickly. Moving my palm down the object's length, I felt the other end. Very bulbous and, though it was polished, this end had a series of shallow ripples along its surface. The weighty, bulbous end fit perfectly into my hand.

I sat there for a while longer, object standing on its own against my lightly cupped palm. The longer I stared, the more details I noticed. A singular, soft ridge ran the length of the object from end to end. The smaller, tapered end was more intricately carved, and was the most polished area as well. It was only slightly wider than the main length of the object, and considerably smaller than the larger end. The stone it was made from was likely some sort of agate. It warmed to the touch.

I placed the object back into its leather nest, closed the box lid, and fastened the latch. I then forced myself to tidy the rest of my things, all the while wondering how Marcurio and Brelyna had commissioned a stoneworker to carve a piece of agate into an object strikingly similar in size and form to Yrsarald's genitals.

. . . . . .

"See, right there, all the way down to my thigh." Ingjard indicated her abdomen with her pointer finger before tracing the line of a massive scar that was paralleled on either side by a fainter line. The werewolf that almost killed her had ripped open the side of her belly and had nearly sliced her femoral artery. My body shuddered involuntarily.

"How did the claws get under your armor?" I asked as she redressed. We had been getting ready for breakfast when she had elected to show me her scars. She was proud of them. They were trophy scars – the ones left over from wounds that should have killed you. The kind of scars people like Yrsarald took names for.

"First mistake – I wasn't wearing my armor. I was…." Ingjard's cheeks reddened, and she then grinned. I laughed, and shook my head. "One more reason to stay off my back as long as I am your house-servant," Ingjard concluded.

 _Stay off my back_. It was a euphemism that I learned the meaning of while at Winterhold. It meant to abstain from sex. I changed the subject directly. "What do you suppose breakfasts are like, here?"

"Better than dinner, I hope. After yesterday's hike, I could have eaten an entire goat myself. I had to eat from our supplies, after."

"I suppose you can always get extra food from Ivarstead."

"I may just have to ask for more." Ingjard was clearly annoyed at the meager meal that the monks supplied for us last night. Granted, the men hadn't expected us, and we did not bring that much food with us from Ivarstead.

"Rest today, and go to Ivarstead tomorrow. Yrsarald gave us plenty of gold. If you want to buy a goat, buy a goat." I paused a moment, considering. "And perhaps see if they have sweetrolls."

"I'll write a list," she replied curtly, but with all the intent of actually following through. She knew we would need more food. "Perhaps the  _gaamen_  need some things, too."

 _Gaamen_. I knew the word referred to the Greybeards, but I still wasn't sure about the definition. Likely,  _gaam_  meant something like 'geezer', or 'curmudgeon'.

As soon as I opened my bedroom door, Arngeir was there to greet me, looking in dire need of some coffee. I blinked at the man several times before greeting him with a "good morning".

Arngeir barely managed a smirk. "Are you ready?" he asked me.

I faltered. "R-ready? For… breakfast?"

An expression I could not define spread briefly across the old man's face. "For morning  _galfardrahnen_ ," he corrected.

My mind, pre-breakfast, only heard muddled noises. "I… the… what?"

" _Galfardrahnen_ ," Arngeir repeated himself as he lightly grasped my forearm, urging me out of the bedroom. When we turned right instead of left, I knew we were not heading towards the meal hall. I started to panic. "You will sit, alone,  _galfardrahnig_. You will think, in silence, about who you are, about  _what_  you are, what you truly need, and about what you want  _gevnar_  from your time with the Greybeards."

 _Think? What?_  My mind was cloudy and my head dizzy. I could feel my stomach cringing as it searched for edible somethings within and was left wanting. As we walked further and further from the kitchen, I began to feel ill.  _Think?_ Arngeir was asking me to fast. Fast and, what, think?

"'Galfardrahn'," I repeated, slowly, picking out the sounds.  _Galar_  meant 'to think', have thoughts.  _Far_  meant 'a walk'.  _Drahn_  was 'dream'. "'Galfardrahn'," I said again. Thought dream. Meditate? Meditate. Fast, and meditate. I couldn't stop the whine that slipped out of my mouth, or the rumble that roared from my gut.

"Surely the Dragonborn needs breakfast first," Ingjard stated in my defense.

"Empty stomach, clear mind," Arngeir declared with pride.

"Empty stomach, see things that are not there," I retorted in a low mumble. "And I already told you what I want."

Arngeir remained silent. He had led me to a small, dark area that boasted an alcove complete with altar and kneepad, and a small, square rug in the center of the offset room. Aside from some candelabras, that was it. I was bid to sit on the rug, and I did so cross-legged. When I was situated, Arngeir left without a word.

"I think I am going to fall over," I mumbled.

Ingjard scoffed. "You act as if you have never been without a meal."

Grumbling, I replied, "Never on purpose."

After a short while of staring in bewilderment at Ingjard, who was kneeling before me, the woman dug into a small satchel she carried and retrieved an apple. "You can have it, if you want."

My instinct was to rip the fruit out of her hand and devour it, but I was too faint to act on the thought. After a moment of staring at the bright green-yellow skin, I closed my eyes and swallowed the saliva that had pooled in my mouth. "No, you eat it. You will need strength if I need to be carried to bed."

"Eating it now would be rude."

"Not if I command it."

At that, I heard the crisp pop of Ingjard taking a bite out of the apple. I inhaled deeply and set about getting into a meditative zone. Breathe in. Breathe out. Slower. Slower. Ignore the dizziness and hunger.

Who am I? An Earthling over her head. What am I? A born-again mage. What do I need? Breakfast. What do I want from the Greybeards? Answers. I wondered if a shortcut to answers would be to rummage around the fortress and read as many books as possible. Surely, this place had a library bigger than the several small bookshelves that I had browsed in the lounge.

 _Alright, stop thinking_. I got comfortable, grounded myself, and put my brain on autopilot. I had done this sort of thing before, once upon a time.

Almost immediately upon settling, my mind's eye was taken outside to a snowscape. Blustery and cruel, the place could have been anywhere. The lands outside of Winterhold, the mountain on which I sat, the arctic of Earth. I shivered. The winds were carrying me onward, somewhere hidden by a blizzard, or perhaps just blowing snow. The brightness of my surroundings hurt my eyes.

On I floated through the thick veil of white, around cliffs, peaks, and boulders. I no longer felt the cold, and instead felt increasingly warm, as if I was being drawn to a source of heat. Around a bend, and another bend. Past boulders and a family of mountain goats. Finally, the wind calmed as the snow veil lifted and let in a greyed rosy light from an endless, cloudless sky. I floated forward still and was then in the center of a wide, white expanse. There was nowhere else to go up.

I was on the top of a mountain. I turned to my left and saw only sharp, craggy peaks, deadly to any human climber, no doubt. Then, to my right, I saw a wall. A curved, stone wall on the top of a mountain, covered in snow. The thing looked as if it had been carved from the mountain itself. As I drew closer, I noted shapes engraved into the structure above the wall as well as etchings on the wall itself. I knew I had seen marks on stone like that in the past.

Saarthal. There was a wall just like this one, if not grander, inside the old Nord ruin. I reached out a hand and brushed away the snow, revealing more of the dashes, slashes, triangles and dots.

Dragon words. Though windswept and polished, the marks were still vaguely legible, if one knew how to read dragon script. I recalled having seen, in my mind's eye, the letters of the words that Viinturuth had spoken, but I didn't understand what was written on this wall. Perhaps that was one thing I would learn at High Hrothgar.

I stepped back from the wall and looked again to the rosy sky. The air was no longer crisp, but instead felt as if I was breathing in heated air. From within me I felt a rumble, and knew my stomach was threatening to rip me from my cerebral journey.

And then, it wasn't my stomach rumbling, but the ground beneath me. The quake lasted the briefest of moments before the mountain stilled. Above me, the clear sky had been shrouded by clouds once again. Behind me, I felt as if a fire had been lit; my back was warmed by its heat. I turned around, but only an empty patch of the endless snow stared back at me. Confused, I walked toward what I had thought was a heat source. Three steps later, my stomach turned and head swayed, and I had to stop in my tracks and grip my knees with my hands. Gasping, I pushed myself backward, away from whatever it was that had made me swoon. As I gave myself a moment to recover, the clouds let loose a gentle snowfall, and I was again cold. I decided that I had had enough, and that it was time to wake myself out of my meditative state and go eat something.

As I imagined myself sitting on a rug, near Ingjard, in a small room inside High Hrothgar and no longer trudging along a mountaintop without a fur cloak on, more rumblings shook the earth beneath me. I could not tell if the quake had happened in reality or in my mind, but it lasted far longer than the previous one. Within the rumblings, I thought I could hear a deep, vibrating voice echoing a repetition of incoherent sounds. The sounds remained distant and faint until, with sudden clarity, the gravelly voice thundered in my head with three distinct words:  _Drem, yol, lok_. Upon hearing the words, I opened my eyes and saw the constricted, sizable reptilian pupil of a dragon. I screamed, and fell backward into the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, all! This will be the last update for a while. Nothing further is written yet (just planned; all is planned!) and real life is going to take over for the autumn. I don't know how much writing I'll get done until November. That is why I decided to make this chapter a long one, and end on a more rounded note… and a cliffhanger! [insert evil laughter]….
> 
> Thank you to KiraMackey for reading over the first part of this chapter!
> 
> Samgalethon - Consensus  
> Lotkine – Grandmaster  
> Fala – Secretive  
> Lot-Laza – Arch-Mage  
> Gaamen – Old men  
> Gevnar – To gain


	27. Changing of the Seasons

_Fifteen years ago…_

"D', what are you doing?"

Emily was a bit confused and probably somewhat concerned after getting an eyeful of my left arm and shoulder. She had stopped in her tracks, recently cleaned turtle tank in her hands, and stared wide-eyed at me and my arm.

Balthazar the Ball Python was calmly wound around my left forearm, bicep, and shoulder. His head had made its way to the right side of my neck, and there it stayed for the duration of his tank cleaning. I was convinced he enjoyed watching what I was doing. He was young, or a teenager or whatever snake ages were relative to a human's, and therefore he was small enough not to weigh me down. I had worn him around myself several times before, sometimes just draping him across my shoulders, and other times as he was then, as an arm coil. Sometimes it meant I couldn't use my left arm for anything, but I didn't mind. Once settled, Balthie never moved until forced. He liked me. And he never once tried to strangle me.

"He's just enjoying the ride, Emily," I replied with a smile.

. . . . . .

Muffled shouting broke through the stark whiteness of my dulled cognizance. My senses were drowned by static and coldness and nothing was in focus, neither sight nor sound. I knew someone was there in front of me, holding me, shaking me, perhaps calling my name, but I felt as if I were under water and the other person just couldn't quite grasp me. When my chest began to burn, I thought I might have been drowning. Instead, I realized I had just been holding my breath.

I exhaled sharply what was held in my lungs and then took several quick breaths in succession as quickly as my body allowed. A trembling voice called to me a breath's distance from my face. I glanced up, finding Ingjard in a panic, and for whatever reason shaking my body by my shoulders and shouting my name.

"Why aren't they coming!?" She groaned and then growled before turning back to me. "Deborah, say something so that I know you can hear me. Please!"

I stared into the woman's widened blue eyes. Her pupils were noticeably constricted. Moving my gaze lower, I watched as her nostrils flared. Lower yet, her naturally dark pink lips, sometimes painted dark red-brown when she was feeling fancy, were quivering. Something had happened. I knew I was supposed to answer her, but my brain took a considerable length of time to make the connection between acknowledgement and action. Several more shrieks later, my lips finally moved to the rhythm of my breath. Looking up at my bodyguard, I asked her, "Are you alright?"

Ingjard froze. She was puzzled, perhaps even shocked. Judging from the slack-jaw look I received, she needed a moment to process what I had said. Regaining her wits, she replied, "Am  _I_ alright?" She scoffed, and lowered her forehead to her palm before sweeping the hand over her disheveled hair. "Gods help me…," she muttered under her breath. "What happened to you!?"

I blinked slowly several times before answering. "I… went somewhere." Ingjard stared back at me. "Did my eyes turn white?" I asked her, remembering the last time I had a sort of black-out.

"White!? Deb…. Deb, your eyes…." She shook her head. "They were like an Argonian's."

I stared right back at her. "Huh?"

"An Argonian's. You know…." Ingjard proceeded to air-draw something enclosed by a circle. She lowered her gaze to the rug I was sitting on and sighed before meeting my eyes again. "Like a dragon's, I suppose."

Conscious memory hit me fully, then. I remembered the snow, the cold, the rosy sky, the dragon words etched into a stone wall, the nausea, the earthquake, and the dragon. I rubbed my temples, easing away a migraine that I felt brewing. "Dragon eyes…," I acknowledged, not quite believing what I was being told.

"Your eyes looked like a  _dragon's_  eyes. And your skin lost its color. You kept staring through me as if I were air. What did you see!?"

I frowned, and looked down at ten splayed fingers. They were taut, pressed flat against my thighs. They looked odd to me. In my confusion I glanced up at Ingjard and asked, "Where are my wings?"

Another stunned look proceeded Ingjard's response of, "Alllright…." She stomped a foot onto the floor and pushed herself up before dragging me along with her. "Time for breakfast."

 _Yes. Breakfast. Good._ My stomach was a hollow abyss, and I was feeling terribly weak. "I want a mammoth."

Ingjard stopped in her tracks and turned to me, raising her eyebrow an impressive height. "Come along, crazy," she insisted, pulling me by crooking her arm against my elbow. An elbow, where there should have been a wing.

As we walked down the dark hallway, pain shot across my left temple and began to pound in a steady rhythm. I cried out and grasped at the smooth stone wall. I would have fallen to the floor if Ingjard had not been there. The migraine had arrived. Flashes of lights bombarded my eyes, and the smell of stewed meat turned my stomach. I cried out for my bodyguard who retained me in her arms, keeping me as best she could on my feet. Then, as quickly as the pain came, it disappeared. I breathed easier, but clung to Ingjard for a moment, still and quiet, before standing on my own and continuing on my way to the kitchen.

. . . . . .

"I'm telling you, she was a fucking dragon." Ingjard was having a row with Arngeir over whether or not I had, at least mentally, turned into a dragon. I was thoroughly unconcerned so long as my stomach was yet unfilled. "And why didn't you come? I called for you!"

"She was never in any danger," Arngeir replied, ever calm.

"She looked like she suffered brain-death! And then she was in pain." Ingjard huffed out of frustration before looking to me with a very sympathetic eye. "Tell us what you saw, Deb. I know you saw something. You screamed."

My eyes were locked onto Ingjard's as I took my final sip of watered-down chicken broth. It wasn't the stewed meat that the others were eating. For whatever reason my stomach wouldn't stand the thought of ingesting it. I knew I wasn't pregnant due to certain biological activities, so that wasn't the cause. And, still, all I kept thinking about was how mammoth steak would taste.

Lowering the soup bowl, I let myself think through my mind's journey before relating it to my meager audience. "I went somewhere," I repeated what I had mumbled to Ingjard earlier. "I walked on snow. It was cold, but then warm…. There was a part of the… I think I was on the top of a mountain… that felt like fire, but there was nothing to see. Walking near that part made my stomach turn and I felt awful. I saw a stone wall with dragon words written on it, but I don't know what it said. And then, the earth shook, and in my head I heard a dragon's voice before I saw its eye. I suppose its head came in front of mine, to look at me, but it was just the eye…."  _Like Sauron_ , I mused, and suppressed a nervous chuckle. "It said words I – well, I know one of them.  _Drem, yol, lok_.  _Yol_  I know means 'fire'." I glanced at Borri, who was smiling in such a way that suggested he was pleased by something I was saying. The other Greybeards held firmly onto poker faces. Frustrated, I turned to Arngeir. "Well, what do the words mean?  _Drem, lok_?"

Arngeir cleared his throat. " _Drem_  means 'peace'.  _Lok_  means 'sky'. What you heard was a greeting."

"A greeting…? 'Peace, fire, sky' is a greeting?"

"Yes. From a dragon. The words together simply mean, 'Hello'."

"I…  _met_ … a dragon?"

Arngeir looked to the other Greybeards. Each of them nodded once, and Arngeir turned back to me. "In your  _galfardrahn_ you met our Grandmaster, Paarthurnax. This… was not expected. He must have called you to him, and your soul answered. The place you traveled to in your mind is the highest peak of this mountain, where Paarthurnax lives."

I was stunned. Speechless. Ingjard, however, filled the silence with exactly what I was thinking. "Paarthurnax  _is_  a dragon!"

Arngeir eyed my bodyguard and answered with a flat, "Indeed".

"But what about her 'I want a mammoth' comment and thinking she had wings?" Ingjard was persistent, because she actually was concerned. "Her  _eyes_  changed shape and color! What happened to her?"

I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and watched as Wulfgar signed something to Arngeir. I wondered if I would have to learn their sign language. I also wondered if their sign language was the same one I had seen being used once in Windhelm by a deaf woman. Somehow, I doubted this world had an 'official' sign language, but since this world did have an official written and spoken language (albeit with dialects, accents, and subtle differences in writing) I didn't totally reject the possibility.

"I believe Master Wulfgar is right," Arngeir finally said before turning back to me. "You have taken into you the soul of a dragon. It is not unreasonable to think that you might think the way a dragon thinks if the dragon's soul is awoken. Either yourself – being Dragonborn, you have the soul and blood of a dragon – or perhaps the dragon whose soul now lies within you awoke upon sensing Paarthurnax, even if just for a moment. I'm sorry, I don't have any firm answers for you regarding this. None of us has ever met a Dragonborn before."

Solid tapping on the table grabbed our attention. Wulfgar once again spoke with his hands, faster that time, perhaps indicating insistence. With a sigh, Arngeir translated. "Wulfgar believes the Dragonborn should meet Paarthurnax immediately, but I remain unsure." The three silent Greybeards signed in turn, though occasionally interrupting one another. They appeared to be arguing.

A little while longer, their squabbling seemed to calm, and Arngeir relayed to me the gist of the outcome. "We have decided that you will be allowed to meet Paarthurnax on the condition that you can make your way to him."

I didn't like the sound of that. "...What? What does that mean? Climb the rest of the mountain?"

"Yes," Arngeir answered, "if you are able."

I rested my head in my hands and groaned quietly, and remained sulked for a moment before a thought caused me to straighten. I narrowed my eyes at Arngeir. "Did you say I had the  _blood_  and soul of a dragon?"

"Yes, that is what a Dragonborn is."

"But… blood? I have seen my blood. I am human."  _Aren't I?_

"You have the  _body_  of a human, yes. Your blood and soul are not wholly human, though."

A sudden nervous twinge rippled through my body from my lower back to my right wrist. "But… I've birthed a child," I spoke quietly. "Is she…?"

Arngeir managed a small smile. "I do not know. But, if you find that she is Dragonborn, do let us know. It would be a very interesting thing to note. It is not known if the child of Talos – Tiber Septim's only son – inherited his, well… his skills." Arngeir's jaw muscles tightened during his pause. "Are you familiar with the legend of the Dragonborn, and of Alduin?"

"Yes, I am," I answered. "I read that book – 'The Book of the Dragonborn' – the one with the… prophecy about Alduin returning. I know that Alduin is a World-Eater, that Nords think he will eat the world and make a new one… and that Torug is meant to kill Alduin. Fate, or the gods, want that to happen."

"Do they?"

"That is what the prophecy said – 'the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn'. Why 'last' I don't know. No one knew. But 'Wheel' has to mean time or fate or gods or something that is all three of those things. Some people think of time as a circle, going on and on, sometimes ending but never  _truly_ ending…. It does not mean the  _world_  will  _end_  in fire or darkness, but that something will change. Change  _big_. That is what I think. Perhaps Torug will fail…. But I still don't know what 'Last' Dragonborn means. Is Torug the last, or am I? Perhaps someone else will be." I shrugged, and sipped my water.

Einarth whipped his hands about in response to me, and I waited for Arngeir's translation.

"Master Einarth says that this is a discussion best handled by Paarthurnax. I agree." Arngeir stood from the table. "If you would, please, follow me to the courtyard. Ehh," he paused, smiling, "you may want to first put on something more  _vithganta_  for the cold, though."

. . . . . .

The courtyard behind the fortress was expansive and completely open to the elements. The main entrance to High Hrothgar, and the cliffs to the side of it, blocked the northern winds. Not so in the courtyard. I was immediately bombarded by an icy gust after Arngeir opened the door.

Looking to the left, I saw what looked like a gate to nowhere, and wondered if some other structure had been lost to time. Straight across the courtyard from the fortress, where Arngeir and the other Greybeards were headed, was a wide set of stone slab steps that lead up to a pair of stone pillars. Past the pillars appeared to be a contained blizzard that only affected that area, which I figured was about to be explained to be, because it wasn't every day that one saw a  _contained blizzard._

At the base of the steps was a low brazier full of freeze-dried dead wood and charcoal. The Greybeards began to surround the brazier, and waited for me to join the circle. Ingjard, arms tugging her fur cloak tight to her body, kept a polite distance. The Greybeards all exchanged looks, and I looked to Arngeir.

After a few moments of awkward silence, I asked, "Can I ignite this?" indicating the brazier. With a terse nod from Arngeir, I urged the dead wood to catch flame, the gentle sort of spell that would not let a stray burst of magic fire be blown across the basin into the faces of my new friends. Once the fire built itself up, I was slightly less liable to freeze to death.

"The way to Paarthurnax is concealed and protected," Arngeir announced the obvious. "He keeps the clouds thick around the peak where he makes his home so that no one may see him from the nearby villages. The storm you see there," he indicated the contained blizzard, "is what the clouds create along the path to the peak. Only those with the knowledge of The Voice are able to clear the storm."

"Clear the storm?" I asked, still wondering how anyone, even a dragon, could use magic to change the weather. Then again, I could make fire with magical dragon words, and fire was an element. Perhaps there were words for ice, water, wind and stone that affected natural surroundings. Perhaps I could even heal myself and spit out lightning with dragon words. "What are the words for clearing a storm?"

Arngeir smiled. "This, you must discover yourself. You are Dragonborn. You have the soul of a dragon. Look into yourself for the answer. How would you clear this storm?"

I nearly grumbled. Arngeir was using the most extreme form of the Socratic method and all the while my gloved fingers and the tip of my nose were already numb. "I have to…," I forgot the word for 'meditate', "think about it? Like I did this morning?"

Arngeir nodded.

I was not happy. There had to be a faster, easier way to learn the Shout that clearly existed, one that could calm a snow storm. Clamping my jaw shut, I stared into the weak brazier fire and thought, and then thought some more. Nothing came to mind, and I would never have been able to meditate in this wind.

" _Fuck it_ ," I muttered in English, and strode up the stone steps toward the pillars and toward the blizzard. I stared into the storm, watching it swirl against itself, almost in a sort of cyclic motion between two short stone walls that lined the steps before and behind the pillars. The snow was too dense to see more than a few meters ahead.

My decision was likely not the wisest one that could have been reached. I should have sat down and asked my inner dragons what to do. I should have waited to hear a whispered set of words, or see Paarthurnax again my head and asked him for the answer. Instead, because I was shivering and impatient, I whipped the glove off my left hand and reached into the space between the pillars, straight into the hellish blizzard.

The pain was – at least momentarily – quite literally blinding. As my entire body jerked, flinging itself backwards, rebelling against such an idiotic decision, my vision went white and I heard only a combination of wind and static. When the few seconds of shock ended and my vision and hearing returned to normal, I healed my frostbitten hand with my gloved unharmed one, and groaned with relief.

As I stared at my pink but no longer blistered hand, the blizzard winds carried with them a soft, gentle voice that wrapped itself around my brain. The words it sang to me sounded like " _lok vah_ ", but I couldn't be sure. The voice was too quiet, and the winds too loud. I turned to the Greybeards who stood where I left them, Einarth and Wulfgar looking none too pleased, Arngeir retaining a poker face, and Borri grinning like a proud father. Ingjard, standing a ways behind Einarth, had her arms crossed and was tapping the tip of her boot against the snow. I could tell she wanted to slap me. I couldn't help but chuckle as I walked down the steps to them.

"I heard a voice," I told them. "It said 'sky something' –  _lok vah_ '. Is that the Shout I need to know?" Perhaps I should have just used the Shout and answered my own question. Indeed, I should have. Not waiting for an answer, I trotted back up to the pillars, took in a few deep breaths, and blared out as fiercely as I could the two words that I was convinced the storm told me to say, as if the wind had a mind of its own.

Shock wasn't quite the right word to describe what I felt next. Disbelief didn't cover it, either. The true meaning of 'awesome', perhaps, came close. I was in awe. Rather than one emotion, my mind wrangled every thought that one might think should they witness the impossible. The blizzard, at least the swirling winds directly beyond the pillars, slowed until they disappeared altogether. I stood between the pillars in sheer amazement long enough for the blizzard to return in all its white wrath.

I turned around where I stood, mouth agape, and waited for the Greybeards to respond to what just happened.

Finally, Arngeir asked, "What do you think ' _vah_ ' means?"

"Um… 'calm'? 'Clear'? I don't know."

Arngeir didn't respond. He simply waited.

"The dragon inside my head is not talking!" I shouted rather sharply.

"Then seek another," the old man said.

I stared at him, tight-lipped and annoyed. "I am seeking you."

Borri chuckled, and I could have sworn the ground beneath me vibrated.

I glowered at the other three men and raised my hands above the brazier, hoping that the numb fingertips would gain feeling again soon. My left hand still hurt, but putting the fur-lined glove back on helped to moderately block out the pain somehow. A moment later, the answer hit me.

 _Kyne_. Storm. Storm Voice. Goddess of the Storm who gave the Storm Voice to humans. Goddess who had indirectly helped me to learn to speak and understand Norren.

"She spoke to me," I realized aloud. I looked past Einarth to Ingjard. She was smiling, and I knew she understood my epiphany. "Paarthurnax didn't make this storm, did he? Kyne did…."

No one answered me.

I sighed, and turned back to the pillars. Kyne herself had spoken to me; I was sure of it. Perhaps part of Kyne was in the blizzard. If I prayed hard enough, if I begged humbly enough, I wondered if the goddess would answer me in words I could easily understand.

"Winter," I said for no reason as I watched the snowflakes swirl around. An image of raindrops on a flower then entered my mind, followed by a thunderstorm over a green meadow. Then, the sky cleared and everything in the meadow turned brown, and my vision went white again. I squeezed my eyelids shut, and when I opened them again, everything was back to normal, blizzard blowing behind the pillars.

"' _Lok_ ' means 'sky'," I mumbled.  _Rainy, stormy, clear, and white. Rainy, stormy, clear…._

 _Seasons_. Spring, summer, autumn, winter.

In quick succession, a soft disembodied voice whispered, " _Vah koor gravuun felniir. Vah koor gravuun felniir,"_ over and over again, increasing in volume and insistence as the repetitions amassed. The utterances began to gnaw at my brain. I could do nothing but say the foreign words, shouting them loud enough to hear over the voice in my head. Before long, I knew I was screaming, but I could not stop. The voice in my head would not stop. I began to see slashes and dots and triangles in my mind's eye, dragon letters, just as I had when I took Viinturuth's soul into mine. Slash slash line, slash line, line line line. They began to jumble as the words in my head overlapped and a pounding in my temple threatened to send me crying to the snowy ground. Eventually all I heard was wind and static again, and all that I could think of saying, what my body  _insisted_  that I say, exited in a scream.

" _Lok vah koor!"_

Exhausted, I sank to my knees, crying. Ingjard was at my side, arm around me and her hand smoothing up and down, comforting me as well as warming the skin beneath the clothes.

I wiped the tears from my eyes and choked on my own breath. I sniffled and whimpered, thankful that the pain in my head, as well as the voices and images, had gone. Ingjard made a gasping-like sound but before I could ask what she was reacting to, she lifted my chin up with a gentle hand.

The two words I had shouted previously had momentarily calmed the storm. The three words I had just screamed so roughly that my throat now hurt not only cleared the blizzard but had changed the weather entirely. Clouds no longer hovered over the path that wound around an immense cliffside. Instead, a bright blue sky let the sun shine down, and I gazed at the glistening white path that stretched out before me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness this chapter took a while to flesh out. As soon as I decided Deb needed to go see Paarthurnax immediately and make her own way through the storm it all wrote itself.
> 
> As you probably noticed, the usual game mechanics are again abandoned here for something more plausible. Deb's dragon soul, well, double-dragon soul, is beginning to awaken and recognize the presence of another dragon, and also is building its connection with the gods, primarily Kyne/Kynareth at the moment. It's also allowing her to more quickly understand dragon words and, most importantly, utilize her inherent dragon instincts (that she didn't know were inherent before).
> 
> The Greybeards were testing her one last time before they were convinced 100% that she was who she said she was. I didn't want to do the business with the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller for various reasons, chief among them me thinking that no one who respects Jurgen and the gods as much as the Greybeards do would actually send someone to partially plunder the man's tomb (without ever telling them to put it back again, at least).
> 
> I don't know why I chose Borri to be all giddy and happy about Deb. It just happened. He doesn't know anything that the others don't, and he isn't happy about her in a creepy way. I guess he just sees her as a humble dork and he likes that about her.
> 
> Anyway… PAARTHIE!
> 
> Galfardrahn – meditation  
> Vithganta – appropriate


	28. Dragon Breath

The way up the peak was as unpleasant as I had anticipated. There were no stone steps, and our boots were soon heavy with encrusted snow. Boulders large and small were strewn about, but the path was more or less clearly laid out. Several stone cairns had been built along the path, but were now partially blown over by the strong winds that Kyne and Paarthurnax created.

I continually used the Shout that Kyne had taught me, just to avoid getting caught in the storm again. All Shouts had a temporary effect, and I didn't particularly want to be frostbitten over my entire body. Thankfully, I didn't have to scream the dragon words every time, and simply speaking them at a moderate volume proved sufficient. Much like the Shout that showed me blotches of red fog, indicating living and unliving things, voicing these new words did not take much energy from my body and the Shout could be uttered as often as necessary.

Understanding the Shout that cleared the storm, indeed understanding all Shouts, was much like understanding the fact that I had brown hair. Once my brain, or perhaps rather my soul understood that the words existed, that dragons used the words in their own language, I simply  _knew._  The process had been instant when I absorbed that dragon's soul, but not so with this new Shout. Kyne, and the Greybeards too, had to help me lead my mind in the right direction. More and more as time passed, using the dragon words, knowing when I could or should use them, came easily. I could even sense when Kyne's storm was about to return. Shouts were no longer second nature; they were becoming instinct.

"Do you realize that this Paarthurnax dragon is as old as the Merethic Era? That's thousands… I don't know how many thousands of years old." Ingjard was practically hopping – no, prancing her way along the snow-covered path that wound around the tallest peak of the tallest mountain in Skyrim. The woman was downright giddy. "And he was the one who helped humans defeat the Dragon Priests! And Kyne favors him. Kyne favors  _you_ …."

After consulting with the Greybeards, we had no idea how long I was going to be kept up there with Paarthurnax, so before we began the short journey we packed flasks of water and some apples, hoping they wouldn't be solid ice blocks by the time we ascended. The Greybeards hadn't been terribly keen on the idea of Ingjard accompanying me up the mountain, but she insisted, and I requested her presence. We argued that if Paarthurnax didn't want to be seen by her, he would hide until she left. But, seeming as how Ingjard was privy to his existence already anyway, we figured the dragon wouldn't mind.

"Kyne does not  _favor_  me, Ingjard," I countered. "Meridia told me that she pitied me. She felt sorry that I did not know your language."

"Kyne is a compassionate goddess. She likely pities all of her children, but the only constant blessing she gives us is rain for the crops. I'm not ungrateful. She has blessed me with strength and  _gathal_. But, you," she smiled, not a jealous muscle in her pretty face, "she is still helping you, guiding you. She did not end her storm for you because she wants you to use your gifts. Become strong. She wants you to succeed."

"I suppose she likes this world as much as Meridia does."

Ingjard silently contemplated something. "It pains me… to think that Alduin has returned and is eating the souls of our ancestors. I truly thought that he was only a legend."

"So did Yrsarald." More silence lingered as we trudged along, keeping up our body heat. "In my world, a dragon never ate the world as one ancient people thought it would. Or, at least that is what they wrote. Though, long after that story was written, the world did change."

"Change how?"

"Hm. People always change. Ideas change. Your world has changed between eras, yes?"

"Of course." She raised an auburn brow. "Do you think each era is actually the end of one world and the beginning of another?"

I turned to Ingjard and shrugged. "Probably not, but what do I actually know about this world?"

Frowning, Ingjard mumbled, "Alduin and all dragons lived in the Merethic Era. I know the stories. I wonder if that means he intended to end this world many thousands of years ago. What if he tried to? What if he didn't try?" She paused a moment before asking the wind, "What if there was a Dragonborn then, too?"

We shared a thoughtful glance. "Perhaps Paarthurnax can answer that," was all I said.

A few paces later, we came to a wide gap in the path, and what remained of a wood-and-rope bridge. The planks had long since deteriorated, and only about a meter or so of rope hung from the posts on either side.

"Well, shit," Ingjard muttered before kicking the snow. "Now what?"

I felt the storm returning, and I repeated the Shout that cleared the skies.

"Do you know any magic words to get us across?" my bodyguard asked.

I bit my lip, thinking, but ultimately I didn't have any answers. "No. I don't."

"What about  _magic_ magic? You're a mage, for Kyne's  _skil_. I thought you were blessed by Akatosh himself."

"I was told I have a lot of magic within me. I don't tire as easily. That does not mean I can move things with my mind like a god." I sighed. "There  _are_  spells for this, but the only mages I know who can do that are either very old, trained for a long time, or being aided by the Psijic Order. I am not these things."

"Well, unless you can turn into a dragon and fly, we're stuck. Or perhaps we could go see if the old men have some rope."

"No," I said, staring at the chasm. "They want me to find a way."

"No one can jump that, Deb."

"Not jump." I took a step forward, looked own, and ruled out any other way but across the gap. "It is only another test. Kyne taught me to clear the storm. I can learn how to cross this space, too."

"Well, do it quickly, then. I'm already getting cold."

"Me too."

Staring at the snow and stones around me, I pondered how in the world I was going to cross to the other side – and, then, later, come back again. Using ice magic to build an ice bridge was out of the question, since my skill with the water element was only good for causing minor frostbite injuries. Using a lightning rune to explode the surrounding area and fill the chasm with more stones was a possibility. However, an explosion would risk not only widening the gap without making it shallow enough to cross, but could cause a severe avalanche or even bring down boulders upon our heads

_No_. I was here to learn how to be a Dragonborn, not a mage. I was meant to cross the chasm using a Shout. I knew it.

I walked over to the splintered bridge posts and squatted down, then ran my gloved fingers across the edge of the cliff. " _Lok vah koor_ ," I muttered, just as a precaution against the continually rebuilding storm.

I felt the stone beneath the snow, and wiped an area clean. The mountain was made out of a sort of granite.

" _Gol_ ," a gentle voice whispered in my ear. I looked behind me at Ingjard, but she was pacing back and forth a small distance away.

Turning back to the chasm, quietly I whispered, "Kyne?" but received no answer, not vocal or otherwise.

I knew it was the goddess, though. She was speaking to me again, though less harshly than before. Unless, of course, what I heard was my own mind, telling me a word I should know.

" _Hah_ ," the voice said again, a sound little more than a drawn-out sigh.

" _Gol hah_?" I repeated the words, tentative, wondering what they meant. Suddenly I questioned the instinct I thought I had been building. I thought that Kyne or Paarthurnax had awakened the dragon within me, and that I was beginning to think like a dragon. Perhaps I was mistaken, and I still needed much help from Kyne, and the Greybeards. " _Gol hah_ ," I repeated with more confidence.

A pebble, no bigger than the tip of my thumb, floated up to my palm and remained there as if my palm was a magnet and the pebble a round bit if iron slag.

"What?" I breathed, turning my hand over and examining the round stone.

"Did you say something?" Ingjard asked.

I turned the pebble around, looking for any oddity, finding none. "It moved."

"What moved?"

"This," I said, turning and standing to show Ingjard the beige pebble. "It… rose to my hand." Our eyes met. "I heard a voice again. I said words. The rock moved into my hand."

A moment later, Ingjard smiled knowingly. "Kyne."

"Maybe."

I felt the storm brewing again and repeated the Shout to send it away.

Ingjard crossed her arms over her chest and smirked.

"What?" I asked, tossing the pebble into the abyss we needed to cross.

"Kyne is in your head, telling you what to do. You keep saying those words, that Shout, and the storm stays away. You know when it's coming, don't you?"

"Yeah…."

"How?"

"I feel it."

"Feel it coming."

"Yes."

"What does it feel like?"

I thought a moment. "Like… when you are in bed and sleep on your side and your arm loses feeling – the time before the feeling comes back it hurts and…."

"Needle numbness," Ingjard helped.

"Hm?"

"That's what it's called. Like tiny needles sticking your skin so many times you go numb." Her brow furrowed. "It feels like that? The storm?"

I wrapped my arms around my torso. "Yeah. But not very strong."

Ingjard nodded. "So… you moved a  _stenis_."

_Stenis_. Pebble. Literally, 'small stone'. "I don't know if I moved it."

"Do it again."

"Do what?"

She sighed. "Whatever it was you did to move the pebble."

"I didn't—"

"I heard you  _say something_." Ingjard was nothing if not insistent.

_Horizontal slashes. Vertical lines_. Static hissed and a migraine once again pressed into my left temple like a very stiff thumb. "Fuck," I muttered, riding the pain wave until it stopped. " _Gol hah_ ," I grumbled. " _Gol hah_.  _Gol hah_. Those are the words.  _Gol hah_ …."  _Rock, mind. Rock, mind._ The dragon inside me was learning, or remembering.

"Is that another Shout?"

" _Lok vah koor_ ," I uttered, yet again keeping the storm at bay.

"Deborah?"

" _Kfft_ ," I hissed at Ingjard. I needed her to shut up for just a moment. Thankfully, she did.

I walked back over to the chasm's edge and looked down. Many boulders and rocks of all sizes lined its bottom. Many also dotted the path on either side. I barely believed myself, what I was considering. There was no way I'd be able to move boulders with my mind, even with Kyne's help. No way.

But I had to try.

Concentrating on a small rock near my feet, I reached out my right hand, eyed the rock like I was angry at it, and uttered the two words that Kyne had taught me. " _Gol hah_."

Slowly, very slowly, the rock rose slightly from the snow. There it hovered, and kept hovering until I lowered my hand.

I stared at the rock in disbelief.

" _Heila_  gods," Ingjard whispered. "You  _did_ move a rock."

I peered down into the chasm again. I wondered if this new telekinetic Shout had a limited radius of effect. If it did, we were still going to be stuck, or would have to find another way across the chasm. I recited the storm-calming words first and then, concentrating on a single grapefruit-sized rock at the bottom of the chasm, recited the two words that, somehow, used my dragon powers to command stone. I wondered if the words were literal –  _stone mind_  – or if they were a metaphor.

Strong-willed.

I aimed my right palm at the desired rock. " _Gol hah_ ," I repeated, and watched, still in disbelief, as the larger stone hovered a small distance above the chasm base. Testing the power, I raised my right hand slowly to shoulder level, and was pleased to find that the rock followed. The problem, however, was that my arm only moved so high, and the chasm was proportionally deeper than my arm reach.  _Stone mind_. I was able to keep the rock in place, about a meter off the chasm floor, but no higher. I mentally commanded the rock to rise, but it didn't. I then commanded the rock to stay where it was, even when I lowered my hand.

It did. I watched the rock, convinced it would drop any moment, but it remained in place mid-air.

I backed away from the chasm edge and proceeded to sit down next to one of the splintered wooden bridge posts. "Ingjard?"

"Yes?"

"I need to ask you to be very, very quiet."

A second later, she quietly asked, "Why?"

I exhaled, slowly, not out of annoyance at Ingjard, but rather because I was nervous. "Because I think I can do this." I dispelled the oncoming storm one more time with Kyne's Shout before beginning.

There I sat, ready to meditate, worried I would become distracted and be frozen to death, but I needed to try to take this new power one step further. I closed my eyes and imagined a bridge of stones, much like stepping stones in a garden, lining the way across the chasm. I imagined Ingjard and me walking across the stones without the rocks giving way and falling back down into the chasm. I imagined us returning the same way, back to High Hrothgar. " _Gol hah_ ," I commanded firmly, eyes still closed, seeing in my mind's eyes the stone bridge being formed. I could only hope that concentrating in this near-meditative way would prove more efficient than simply using the Shout on one rock. I thought I heard the sharp sound of stone grinding against stone, but I dared not open my eyes to check my presumed progress. " _Gol hah,_ " I yelled again, and let the visual in my mind complete itself.

But then, the tingles began, the ones that foretold that return of the magical storm. I didn't have much time until Ingjard and I would be caught within its gusts. " _Gol hah_ ," I repeated a third time before uttering once more, " _Lok vah koor_ ," scaring the storm away.

Silence followed, and I heard nothing until Ingjard whispered my name. I waited a moment before opening my eyes.

Directly in front of me, stretching across the chasm alongside what was once a wood-and-rope bridge, were several dozen rocks of varying sizes, forming a low arch from one side of the chasm to the other. They didn't float necessarily, wavering up and down like cinematic hovercrafts always did, they rather appeared to be locked into place.

Wasting no more time, I stood, and gingerly pressed a foot to the edge of the stone bridge, testing its strength.

"Deb, I don't… I don't know…." Ingjard's voice was quiet with trepidation.

"I don't think we should wait," I decided, and pressed a foot firmly against the bridge but not yet crossing. I pressed harder again, letting my full bodyweight test the stones' strength. Satisfied, I reached back a hand toward Ingjard, urging her forward. "Together. Fast. The bridge is short and will only take maybe three steps if we run."

Ingjard did not approach me, but rather stepped back. "I'll go first," she declared.

"No, Ingjard, now!" I knew I was right about this. I knew we couldn't wait, and I knew we had to run across the bridge together. Again, I reached back to her, and thankfully she stepped forward and grasped my hand with her own. "Now," I repeated, and turned.

I had been mostly right about the length of our running strides, even though Ingjard was encumbered by her steel armor. In four long steps we had crossed the length of the arch. In five, we were on the other side of the chasm. The bridge held even then, but I didn't waste time wondering how or why and instead continued walking up the path. The magical storm encroached again, and I Shouted it away.

"How did you do it?" Ingjard asked after a short while.

"The words did it," I responded.

"Yes, I know, but… how?"

"I don't know, Ingjard. The same voice – it must be Kyne – spoke to me. ' _Gol hah'_. It means 'rock mind', but I think it is not to the word. I think it means to have a strong mind. Like, strong enough to command rocks…. I learned the words and their meanings exactly as before, with this magical storm. I knew… I just knew what to do."

"Do you feel the rocks? Like you feel the storm?"

I thought about it, and looked behind us at the now distant chasm. The stone bridge remained. "Perhaps. I'm not sure."

Discussion of the miracle I had just performed ended there, and on we traveled without further hindrance, except for our snow-laden boots and my deepening exhaustion. After a while, I needed to stop and take a break. I sat on a boulder and sipped from my canteen. The water was ice cold, but thankfully unfrozen.

"How much longer do you think we will travel?" I asked Ingjard, as if she would know. "The need to keep Shouting those storm-calming words is making me tired." That, and trudging through ankle- to knee-deep snow.

Ingjard didn't answer, but instead had her wide eyes focused on something in the distance. It was her 'impending doom' stare. I turned to where she looked, but saw nothing. " _Laas_ ," I whispered.

Ahead of us, low to the ground but I thought not  _on_ the snow, was a slow-wriggling snake-like red fog. There was no way a snake would be able to survive up here.

"I see it," I told Ingjard, "like a snake. What could live up here?"

"Not a snake," she confirmed, "and ice ghost."

"Ice ghost!?"

"They're like… magic snakes. Not truly ghosts… but they're made of a sort of ice. Some people say they're the souls of people who died in the place they haunt, come to life again as ice monsters. They're angry." She turned to me. "Their bite burns, like hot ice. I suppose much like the storm you keep sending away. Use fire on them, just like you did the frost troll. Right now, it is waiting to see if we attack. They always defend their  _herath_. Use your strongest fire magic – whatever that is. Your dragon fire, maybe. When it gets close enough I'll try to hit it with my sword."

"'Try'!?"

"They're fast. Very fast. But there's only one and you will probably be able to kill it with your magic. Now!"

"Alright! Alright…." I took two deep breaths and without thinking further on the matter I shouted, strongly, the three words that created an enormous ball of fire in front of my face. While I watched the flame travel forward, I readied a ball of fire between my palms, just in case. My fire magic was weak, but it was something.

Moments later, I heard what sounded like the shattering of glass and an unearthly shrill. I continued to keep my magic ready, but Ingjard sighed and patted my shoulder. "It's dead. Thank the gods. I hate those things more than I hate frost trolls. Come on."

I dispelled my fire magic and followed my bodyguard. She knelt to where the ice ghost had been, what was now a pile of blue ice splinters. The surrounding area was half water and half iced over from the intense heat of my fire Shout and the subsequent refreezing of the melted snow. Ingjard rummaged through the pile and retrieved a handful of curved pointed icy objects.

"Teeth. They have a  _lot_ of them. Even one brings a lot of gold. Alchemists love these things." She reached to her side and deposited the little icicles into the pouch she wore at her belt. She smiled up at me. "How is your energy?"

"Fine," I lied. "Let's just keep going."

As we hiked on, I wondered whose reborn soul I just exploded. I wondered if they would come back again as an ice spirit and hunt me down.

" _Lok vah koor_ ," I voiced again. Soon we were stomping up a very steep curve around the peak, and I hoped to all gods real or not that this was the final test of my endurance, my lung capacity, and my patience.

"I think I am suffering height sickness," I groaned, meaning altitude sickness. "The air is too thin up here."

"Stop whining. Nobody wants a  _velara_ Dragonborn."

"You… are a Nord." I wheezed, but kept on hiking. "Me? Born near the sea. In a different world." I stood bent, hands on knees, looking ahead and trying to deepen my breaths. To our left was perhaps the tallest peak of the mountain, a jagged thing no one without bolts and rope could climb. The path we were to take wound around it. I felt the storm brewing again and voiced the Shout, however weakly, but the words took effect anyway.

Onward we went, and the way became steeper. I grabbed onto jutting rocks and boulders and assured footholds before moving on at times. Ingjard was as happy as a mountain goat. I was simply too tired for emotions.

"Look, there," Ingjard chirped, "I think we've made it to the top. It's flattened."

Standing next to her, I recognized the place immediately. "Ingjard…."

"Hm?"

"This is where I went. This is what I saw this morning." Straight ahead was a curved rock wall, encrusted with snow and ice. Behind the wall was a small peak and what looked like a sharp drop. The peak to the left still loomed, but did nothing to protect the mountaintop from the blustering winds. My teeth began to rattle.

I trudged onward and ducked behind the stone wall, safe from the onslaught of winds. Ingjard joined me. I looked around, but saw no dragon. "Maybe he didn't want you to see him after all."

"Hmph," was all Ingjard said.

After a while, I expected to feel an oncoming storm, but didn't. The weather at the mountaintop was windy, but not protected by Kyne's magic. Or, perhaps, the ring of clouds that concealed this plateau was simply hovering below and around where we were.

Across from the stone wall stood the tall peak, and I stared at it, examining the curves and breaks and wind-polished nodes.

"Wait…," I muttered, still gazing at the peak. I moved my gaze slowly upward, toward the very tips that touched the sky. There was something odd about the peak, not visibly but rather something I just sensed. Nothing was  _wrong_  – we weren't in danger, we weren't in the wrong place, but something called to me from that peak. That was the only way I could interpret the wordless thought in my head. Something was hiding.

Something was toying with me.

"Of course," I whispered, and then voiced the dragon word for 'life'.

And there it was, there  _he_ was, hidden behind a crease in the peak. A red fog concealed the dragon from my sight, but I saw his house-sized form curled into itself among the crags.

I stood from the wall and approached the peak, allowing the wind to buffet my cloaked body. Ingjard followed. "I met you, Paarthurnax! I sense you now!" I felt the need to nearly scream over the constant howl, though I was certain the dragon would have heard me even if I had whispered. "And I see you there, among the rocks! The Greybeards sent me to you, so come down, let me see you!" I paused a moment before adding, " _Drem yol lok!_ " I felt a tingling in my left temple, not the pain I had felt repeatedly as of late. I knew that Viinturuth was stirring.

The red fog faded and the grey of the rock began to move. Pebbles rolled down from the peak as frayed wings were untucked, a spine-covered head perked up, and a long, spaded tail unfurled. Now distanced from the rocks, I realized that the color of the dragon was not quite grey, but a bit of an off-white.

A white dragon.

Ulfric had dreamt of a white dragon, as well as Alduin, the black dragon.  _The white dragon saves us_. In my heart, I knew Paarthurnax was the white dragon that was going to save me – from what, I didn't know. Perhaps he was going to save me from Alduin, from Torug, or even perhaps from myself.

Paarthurnax stretched his massive body its full length and arched his back, a back that was covered entirely by spines as wide as my arm. As the dragon began to crawl slowly down the peak and toward the snow-covered clearing, I realize that this was only the third encounter I had ever had with a dragon. The first had been indirect, though still a near-fatal meeting with Alduin. The second had been with Viinturuth in Windhelm.

The ground shook slightly every time Paarthurnax took a step with his hind legs – his only legs – and the curve of his wings, what would have been knuckles had he arms.

A tale was written on Paarthurnax's body. He was old, very, very old, and perhaps had seen a battle or two judging by the tattered state of his body. His jaws were lined with spikes of varying size, like a boney beard, with two larger spikes in the front, one of which was broken. Two massive horns topped his head and curved out like that of a wicked kudu. His eyes shone like glacial ice, and they had a reptilian slit pupil. Steam puffed from his nostrils every so often. From the way he moved, it seemed he was either tired, old and creaky, or did not feel the need to move swiftly – he trusted me.

Finally, the dragon came to a halt on his way to the plateau and turned to Ingjard and me. He eyed us carefully, pupil shifting from a narrow line to a diamond and back again, and I wondered if he had expected someone different. A moment later, Paarthurnax turned away from us toward the curved wall, and without warning breathed a screaming blaze of fire against the stone. Ingjard and I gasped and jumped, taken completely off guard by the unexpected inferno.

But, then, something clicked. As I watched the fire melt the frost and snow that had accumulated on the wall, a part of me, or perhaps a part of Viinturuth, understood what Paarthurnax was doing. I hadn't understood before, when I was standing in front of High Hrothgar waiting for the Greybeards to let me in. I had Shouted at the sky, at the clouds that surrounded the peak where Paarthurnax hid himself. I had not known at the time that he was there – at least, not consciously. Paarthurnax had then answered with the same thunderous Shout – the words  _fus, ro, dah._  Now, it was Paarthurnax who opened communication with a Shout, with fire. Viinturuth wanted to respond.  _I_ wanted to respond.

I turned to the curved wall and without hesitation answered fire with fire. How the Shout worked with me was not quite the same as it was with Paarthurnax, with other dragons, I realized. When I spoke the dragon word ' _yol_ ', fire formed in front of my face and jutted forth from there, as if the vibrations from my voice caused the air to ignite. Dragons, on the other hand, literally exhaled fire. Still, the result was the same, though admittedly my fire was a lot less terrifying than the flame Paarthurnax had demonstrated.

" _Drem yol lok, fron,_ " a slow voice rumbled after the din of my answer faded. I turned to the dragon. He had spoken. Lazily, as if articulating words took some effort. "I have been waiting for you,  _Dovahkiin_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I'm SO SORRY to cut this chapter off here. I know I promised you Paarthurnax, but the chapter just got too long. Next chapter, however, is basically where Deb gets answers to a LOT of questions from Paarthurnax, so I promise it will be worth waiting a bit longer for. The next couple chapters in fact are all about answers and self-discovery.
> 
> Also, I realize that the Shout that Deb learns with the help from Kyne in this chapter and how she learns it is something utterly different from the Dragonborn DLC, but when have I ever stuck to the "script"? ;)
> 
> Gathal – stamina  
> Skil - sake  
> Stenis – pebble  
> Heila - holy  
> Herath – territory  
> Velara - Whiney
> 
> Dovahzul:  
> Lok vah koor – Sky Spring Summer (Clear Skies Shout)  
> Gol hah – Earth/Stone Mind (part of Bend Will Shout)  
> Yol - fire  
> Fron – kin/relative  
> Dovahkiin - Dragonborn


	29. With a Twinkle in His Eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! This chapter took a lot of waiting for my brain to get in the zone. It was too important to just force it out. This is a canon lore and fabricated lore-heavy chapter with lots of dialogue, but it contains answers, and who doesn't like answers? All Dovahzul words are translated at the end of the chapter, but the text generally gives clues as to meaning if not translating directly.
> 
> Thank you to those who have given kudos to this story. I look forward to hearing what you think about this and past/future chapters.
> 
> Don't forget to follow me on Tumblr for updates and insights and previews: Skyrim-Junkie DOT tumblr DOT com.
> 
> Also, big thank you to Kira Mackey and my new beta fluttermoth, two excellent writers, for looking over this chapter.
> 
> Now… on with the Paarthie!

 

_Dovahkiin. Dovahkiin._ I knew I had heard that word before, but I couldn't figure out from where. The word repeated as a whisper in my mind, but the voice was soon overpowered by the realization that Paarthurnax had not only spoken, he had  _spoken in Norren_ .

Staring up at the ancient white dragon, I couldn't help but notice that his teeth were about the size of those of a  _Tyrannosaurus rex_ , the length of my hand, and that his entire head was the length of more than half my body. It would be easy, so easy for this beast to simply open up and eat me. My jaw hung low as I stood frozen in newfound awe, and it took Ingjard elbowing me in the arm to get my lungs working again.

"You speak the language of the Nords?" I finally asked in a hushed voice.

" _Geh_ ," the dragon answered. Somehow, likely an innate knowledge provided by either my soul or Viinturuth's, I understood the word to mean, basically, 'yes'. Paarthurnax quickly continued. "I have spoken with  _joorre_  for thousands of years.  _Tiiraaz_ , more often than with my own kind."

As I stood in front of Paarthurnax, as he spoke his native dragon language mixed with Norren, I searched for the meaning of the other dragon words that I did not outright understand. Given my question and the context of his answer, I wondered if ' _joorre_ ' meant 'humans' or 'Nords'. The other word, however, ' _tiiraaz_ ', which had a similar extended vowel sound to some Norren words, I could not fully interpret, but something about the way Paarthurnax spoke tugged at my insides, invoking sympathy, and a profound sadness. And, then, I understood.

Paarthurnax was lonely.

Sequestered to a mountaintop for unknown reasons, hidden from the eyes of humans, acting as Grandmaster to the Greybeards…. I wondered if he deliberately avoided contact with other dragons. I wondered what it meant that he did.

"This one was not expected," Paarthurnax remarked, abruptly turning his snout toward Ingjard.

"She goes where I go," I defended firmly. "Her name is Ingjard. You do not need to worry – she can be trusted."

Ingjard, standing straight and tall, showed none of the wonderment I knew her to be experiencing. She was as excited to meet an ancient, friendly dragon as one might expect of a Nord who grew up knowing dragons to be long gone, extinct marvelous creatures that were barely more than a myth. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that the fingers of Ingjard's left hand were tapping against her steeled thigh, a subtle release of her internalized emotion. I knew how she felt. I would have never retained such decorum if I had been introduced to a friendly dinosaur.

I began to shiver. The wind was unforgiving on this plateau, and no cloak could block the chill forever. Without notice, I started for the curved stone wall, which had been left blackened by the earlier verbal attack. I sat myself down against the deepest part of the curve, and Ingjard settled snug against me. I peered up at Paarthurnax. As he turned and watched me cower against the cold, he snorted.

He was amused. How I knew that he was amused was anyone's guess, but I suspected my new scaly friend might have an answer. He probably had many answers.

"I-I have questions," I finally spoke, jaw still tight from my muscles attempting to warm me.

" _Laanne_. Yes." Paarthurnax spoke with a certain tranquility about him. I found the vibrations of his voice soothing. " _Dovahkiinne_  always have questions."

"Dov-ah–keen-eh _,"_ I repeated. The first word,  _dovah_ , meant 'dragon' in Norren and, I suspected, dragon-speak as well. " _Dovahkiin._ I have heard this word before. What does it mean? 'Dragon' something'? Why do you call me this?"

Paarthurnax took a moment to think on my question, a long moment that unnerved me somewhat. "You are  _Dovahkiin._  You understand."

 _Huh?_ No, I certainly did not understand. "'Dovah' is the Nord word for 'dragon'. 'Kinar' means to lead. Is that what the word means? 'Dragon led'? 'Dragon leader'?"

A short series of guttural huffs vibrated from Paarthurnax's throat. He was  _laughing_. " _Dov. Dovah. Dovah kiin. Dov ah kiin_. We are all as Akatosh made us. Scale. Flesh. You,  _Dovah-kiin_ , are born of His blood.  _Sossedov._  You are a Child of Akatosh, and I welcome you as  _fron,_ sister."

I blinked up at Paarthurnax, who had turned his head so that a single icy eye could peer down at me and Ingjard.  _Sister_ , he had called me. Born of Akatosh's blood.

"I… but…," I looked down at my gloved hands and thought a moment, wondering if I could simply reach deep into my brain or soul or  _whatever_ and pull out the meanings behind everything Paarthurnax was saying. I had, after all, known that what Paarthurnax was doing before with the fire breath was a sort of greeting. I  _knew_  that. I knew….

 _Of course._ I returned my gaze to Paarthurnax. "It means 'Dragonborn', doesn't it? That is what people call me. ' _Dovah-faea_ '."

Paarthurnax edged in closer, his eye so near my head that it leant its glassy surface as a mirror. My vision shifted focus from the giant blue-grey iris and set on the reflection of my face that the diamond-shaped pupil offered. Within the pupil, dotting my face, appeared to be tiny, twinkling lights. Tiny stars.

"You are unlike the  _ahhe_ ," he rumbled, still eyeing me thoroughly.

"The what?"

"Miraak. Torug. They are  _Dovahkiin_.  _Dov ahhe kiin_. You, and those from years passed, Alessia, Talos, and Martin, are  _Dovah kiinne_. All have the blood, sometimes the soul of the  _dov_ , but made for a different purpose.  _Ahhe_  are made by Akatosh for a single purpose – to hunt and kill Alduin.  _Nuz_ , Children of Akatosh,  _Dovah kiinne_ , no, not hunters –  _fronne_." He backed away somewhat. "Made for a great purpose."

I let the dragon's words sink in for several moments as I stared into Paarthurnax's eye. "So, Torug and I are different. And, there have been others. I am like Talos."

" _Med_  Talos?  _Niid_. Talos was Talos. You are you. You have a different purpose."

I chuckled. "True. I am not a great warrior."

" _Geh_. You are a mage. I can feel the power of Akatosh within you."

"And the others? The others like me? What were they made for?"

Paarthurnax shifted his body somewhat and settled into himself like a bird, tucking his wings and lowering his abdomen to the snow. Though, unlike a bird, from such a position he had to rest his head on the ground, like a dog. I guessed he was preparing for a long conversation.

"Alessia freed  _joorre_  from slavery. Talos united the lands of  _joorre_. Martin helped save the world from…  _votiidus_   _oblaan,_ from its falling into Oblivion. You will do the same."

"The same? The same as whom?"

Paarthurnax simply stared at me, his eyes at the same level as my head. I waited for an answer that did not come, so instead jumped to a conclusion.

"Are you saying I will have to do all of those things?"

A puff of steam or smoke billowed from Paarthurnax's nostrils before he answered with a simple, " _Geh_."

My shoulders sank. I stared at Paarthurnax, wondering how he knew my fate. Perhaps dragons really were gods.

"I know of two things that I have to do. One is to help Meridia, and the other is to find the Eye of Magnus. But, you say I will have to free people from slavery? Unite lands like Talos!? How can you know these things?"

"Come closer," the dragon bade. " _Mindok._ Look into my eyes."

I did as he asked, though reluctantly leaving the safety of the stone wall. I walked toward the right side of Paarthurnax's head, which offered some protection from the wind. I crouched down, and looked into his right eye.

It looked different from before. No longer did I see an icy iris and diamond pupil, but the entire orb was cast over by a pale purple cloud, and sparkled brilliantly with the twinkle of stars. The longer I stared, the brighter the stars glowed.

"What is that?" I breathed, leaning in for a closer look.

"Aetherius. The home of the  _dov_. The home of the  _rah,_ gods. The home of magic."

"Aetherius…. Why…?"

The cloudy, starry glow in Paarthurnax's eyes faded and returned to their normal draconic state, though retaining a faint sparkle.

"Why?" Paarthurnax exhaled rather slowly and audibly, and I wondered if it was akin to a sigh. "Alduin, the first-born of Akatosh, The Destroyer, World-Eater, was never meant to be the  _maar_ , terror that he became so long ago. He was the reason for the Dragon War, the rebellion of the humans of this land,  _Bronne_ , Nords. I was at his side for much of this war, but later realized the wrongness of Alduin's ways, the  _dovahhe_  who followed him, and the Dragon Priests."

I sat on my heels and tightened my cloak around me. "Is that when you met with Kyne?" I recalled some of the story that was written on the plaques that lead up to High Hrothgar. The plaques had not mentioned, however, that Paarthurnax was once an ally of Alduin's.

" _Geh_.  _Kaan,_ Kyne, summoned me, and with her help I communicated with the Nords, taught them the  _Thu'um_. My meaning is this – Alduin's purpose, his only purpose, is to end Time when Akatosh commands it. He chose to forsake this task. He enjoys this world too much. He ignores the call of our father. Instead, Akatosh speaks to me. That is what you see in my  _miin_. You see Aetherius. You see Akatosh."

"And… Akatosh tells you about my future…."

"Tell? No, not tell. It is more…  _mindok_. It is known. I have felt your presence since the day Akatosh made you."

 _Made me_ , I repeated to myself. "Alduin sensed me too," I recalled, staring down at my hands, hearing Meridia's voice in my head. The black dragon had found me at Helgen, had even stared right at me. He knew me, then. I looked back at Paarthurnax's eye. "Does Akatosh want this world destroyed?"

The giant eye clouded over for a moment before returning to normal again. " _Vomindok._ That is not for us to know."

I bit my lip, frustrated. They were beginning to get chapped. "Am I truly to do as Talos did? Tiber Septim? I am not—"  _capable, appropriate, qualified..._  "I am not good for an emperor. I'm not good for any ruler."

"You will do what you will,  _Dovahkiin_."

I glared at the dragon. "You cannot tell me, then?"

"You will know what you must do when you must do it."

I groaned internally, but moved on to one of the other many questions I had. "So… Torug. The Orc. He is a 'hunter'…  _ahhe_?"

" _Ah_. Hunter.  _Ahhe_. Hunters."

" _Ah…._ He was born to kill Alduin."

" _Geh_."

"And I was not."

" _Vahzah_. True."

"And, so, I cannot kill Torug until he kills Alduin." I had already guessed this, but I supposed a confirmation couldn't hurt.

" _Onik_. You are wise. Akatosh chose well."

I stifled a laugh, and soon found myself frowning. "Why me?" I asked Paarthurnax, peering again into his starry eye. "Meridia said Arkay saw my tattoos. The gods sensed something about me. She said she wanted me as her Champion because I value death as well as life. I was told being a Child of Akatosh meant I had a talent for magic and even a resistance to it. I walk through wards…."

"It seems you already know the answer to 'why you'."

"So, you don't know."

Paarthurnax remained silent. I stared into his eye, wondering if he was withholding information. I decided to ask yet another question that had been plaguing my mind for almost as long as 'Why me?' I huddled into myself, bracing for an answer that I might not want to hear.

"Am I human?"

The dragon's breath stilled. When Paarthurnax was breathing, there was a constant rumble deep in his chest, and standing close I could feel the heat of his exhalations. At my question, Paarthurnax held in his breath, nearly causing my own lungs to halt. Such a hesitation surely mean that I was, indeed, not fully human, and that the dragon was disinclined to answer. Finally, the air around us vibrated as Paarthurnax exhaled. He stood, or rather pushed himself up by his wing-knuckles, and turned to his right, looking at something behind me. I turned around in kind, wondering what I was supposed to be seeing.

"Do you feel it?" the dragon asked me.

"Feel… what? The wind?"

Paarthurnax exhaled sharply through his nostrils, what I took for an amused snort. " _Niid_ , not the wind."

I looked harder, finding only packed snow, blowing snow, the high peak to my right, and the path from which I hiked up the mountain. And then, with a gasp, I recalled the invisible  _thing_ , the area on the top of this mountain that I had felt during my meditation.

"There is a place here, right here…." I turned to my left, toward the general area where I recalled feeling nauseated in my meditative journey. "It was hot. It made me feel sick."

" _Geh_.  _Bo_. Show me this place."

I kept on walking, slowly, left arm outstretched and a receptive palm searching for any sort of magical disturbance, ward, or some other such  _thing_  that could cause my stomach to reel. Perhaps it was an electromagnetic energy.

And then I felt it. A blast of warmth hit me as if I was suddenly standing in front of a blazing fire. Then came the nausea. "It is here. What is it?"

"It is the  _Tiid-Ahraan._ Time-Wound."

"Time  _Wound_?"

"Created by the original Tongues, the first mortals to whom I taught the  _Thu'um_. The  _Kel_ , Elder Scroll, ripped through Time to send Alduin away." As I looked upon Paarthurnax blankly, he continued. "The Elder Scrolls… they are… artifacts of creation, the thoughts of Magnus that realized themselves. They…  _prodah lein_  – foretell. Past. Future. Other futures. Everything that happens, did not happen, will happen, will not happen, is already written." Paarthurnax emitted a low growl as he glared at me. "Everything. Though, I do not know what is written.  _Nunon_ Magnus _._ Not even the gods know."

I took a moment to think upon what Paarthurnax was saying. Tongues, people who knew how to use the Storm Voice, people like Ulfric and young Uthyr, had during the Dragon War battled Alduin and presumably other dragons, and had created a rift through time. A wormhole. A portal. And, they created it with another artifact of Magnus. I wondered how many artifacts there were.

"Where did they send Alduin?" I finally asked.

"Not 'where' – 'when'. They sent him away, not knowing he would return. Time sent him to now."

"This… wound… is a portal? It goes back to the time of the Dragon War?" I reached out with my left hand, tentative. The further my fingers reached, the more intense the heat became. My fingertips began to tingle. The air in front of me rippled, similar to heat waves seen on a distant hot road, but these waves were vertical. "What would happen… if I…?"

"I do not know," Paarthurnax answered quickly. I heard a stirring from behind us, and Ingjard had jogged over to stand slightly behind me.

"Deborah, please don't do anything stupid." Ingjard's tone was both stern and annoyed. I ignored her for the moment.

"Have you never, Paarthurnax?" I asked him, still looking at the portal. "Never gone through?"

"No. I cannot. No  _dovah_  can by his own will."

I began to hear a dim humming, a low vibration that certainly came from the Time Wound. I wondered if I was hearing the other side. "I've walked through wards," I lulled as my fingers danced in front of the ripples.

"Deb—"

"Your body is mortal," Paarthurnax finally answered, effectively staying my hand. I backed away from the heat and turned to face the dragon. "The rest of you is  _dovah_ ," he continued. "Your blood. Your breath. Your mind. You felt the Time Wound because you are  _dov_. All  _dovahhe_  are sensitive to Time. Without Time,  _dov_  would not exist. You are different – not as  _Dovahkiin_ , but as yourself. I know you are not of this world. You exist in this time and yet exist in another. You are special, but you are still mortal. You will age. You will die. Even  _dovahhe_ age, as you can see.

"I am the oldest of the  _dov_. I am worn. Most  _dovahhe_  rest for hundreds or thousands of years in Aetherius. In this way,  _dovahhe_  do not appear to age, but age we do,  _mahfaeraak_ , forever. The  _dov_ are immortal and cannot truly die unless our souls are taken by another of the  _dov_. Alduin, created before myself, is yet younger, as he has lived thousands of years less. The Time Wound sent him forward to now, and he missed all the other eras of  _joorre._ Alduin also  _du_  the _sillesejoorre_  to keep himself young and strong.I have not left Mundus since the Dragon War. I have not rested. I have waited, here, for Alduin's return. When that day came, I was not ready. I was… tired. We fought.  _Saan_. Alduin's  _Thu'um_  tore into me and I was  _krent_ , as you can see." Paarthurnax raised a wing to the broken horn on his fore-jaw, simultaneously showcasing his tattered wing. He lowered his head in mimicry of what I would have thought a stance of shame. " _Qeth ahrk slen_. Alduin made a weak, tired  _dovah_  into a  _gaafsedov._ "

So that was why Paarthurnax looked as though he had lived since the dawn of time. He had.

"So… I am human," I concluded. "My children will be human."

Paarthurnax huffed. "Must there be only  _lok uv golt_? Sky or ground? You are  _Dovahkiin_. You are neither  _dov_ nor  _joor_  and yet you are both. I do not know about children you may bear.  _Krosis_."

I nodded, and sauntered my way back to the stone wall before sitting down. Paarthurnax side-eyed me still.

"I suppose being Dragonborn is why I can understand a lot of dragon things. Dragon words, thoughts," I peered into the giant blue eye, "why I wanted to eat a mammoth after you met me in my mind, this morning." Paarthurnax snorted. "Do dragons need to eat?" I asked.

"Need? No, not as  _joor_  do.  _Bahlok_? Yes.  _Dovahhe_ crave the taste of mammoth or bull or mortal." Paarthurnax's pupil constricted. "You have taken a  _silsedovah_ , the soul of a dragon inside of you."

"Yes. Viinturuth. He was killed in Windhelm, a city in the north, and I took into me his soul. I did not know I was Dragonborn before that. I have only his soul in me."

"This was not long ago," he noted, somehow aware of the timing of this event.

"About one month."

A loud rumble sounded from the dragon's throat. "Viinturuth was always  _golah_. Stubborn. He will remain with you for all of your life if you do not end him. He will attempt to take over your mind if you are not careful."

"The headaches," Ingjard muttered to me, nodding once.

"Right," I answered, and turned back to Paarthurnax. "I think you're right. I think Viinturuth wants to be awake. How do I—"

A distant but terrifyingly loud roar thundered across the sky. Paarthurnax, though slow in his advanced age and weak state, turned relatively quickly toward the sound, to the north. My gaze followed, but a stirring within me knew who called.

 _Zeymah! Meyz! Gestin dovah!_  The voice inside me growled to be set free, and a pain stabbed my temple again. " _Zeymah!_ " I shouted, but not of my own volition.

A gust of wind battered my body, and I watched as Paarthurnax took flight. He hovered over the center of his home, guarding the sky from the oncoming storm.

Alduin was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dovahkiin/ne - Dragonborn/s  
> Geh - yes  
> Joor/re - mortal/s  
> Tiiraaz - Sad  
> Laan/ne - Question/s  
> Dov - dragonkind  
> Dovah/he - dragon/s  
> kiin - born  
> Ah/he - hunter/s  
> Sossedov - Blood of dragonkind  
> fron/ne - relative/s  
> nuz - but  
> Med - Similar to  
> Niid - no (opposite of yes)  
> Nid - no/none/nothing  
> votiidus oblaan - untimely end  
> Mindok - Know/Understand; known  
> rah - god/s  
> Maar - terror  
> Bron/ne - Nord/s  
> Kaan - Kyne  
> Thu'um - Voice  
> miin - eye/s  
> Vomindok - unknown  
> Vahzah - true  
> Onik - wise  
> Bo - go  
> Tiid-Ahraan - Time-Wound  
> Kel/le - Elder Scroll/s  
> prodah lein - foretell everything  
> Nunon - only  
> mahfaeraak - forever  
> du - devours  
> sillesejoorre - souls of the mortals  
> Saan - lose  
> Krent - broken  
> Qeth ahrk slen - bone and flesh  
> gaafsedov - ghost of dragonkind  
> lok uv golt - sky or ground  
> Krosis - sorrow/apologies  
> Bahlok - hunger  
> silsedovah - soul of a dragon  
> golah - stubborn  
> Zeymah! Meyz! Gestin dovah! - Brother! Come! Free this dragon!


	30. Fire and Ice

I groaned with the pain of Viinturuth awakening, calling out to Alduin as best he could. Ingjard was at my side, her heavy metal shield raised and ready to protect me. In my moment of disorientation, I didn't know what exactly to say, but I knew that I needed Paarthurnax's help if I was going to be of any use to fight Alduin, something I was far from prepared to do even with all my wits about me. Biting air filled my lungs, and I called out to Paarthurnax.

"Paarthurnax! Alduin comes! Viinturuth is here!"

The white dragon roared at the sky, a response to Alduin's imminent arrival. " _Geblaan!_ " Paarthurnax bellowed as he swerved above, peering down at me. "End Viinturuth by making his mind your own!"

"How!?"

" _Uth!_  You must command him!"

I growled. Paarthurnax's advice was hardly useful. It was Faralda telling me to  _simply_   _light the candle_  all over again, only this time death-by-dragon was looming, rather than failing to master fire magic.

 _Command him. Command him. Make his mind your own_. The gears of my brain were spinning out of control as I attempted to understand the full meaning of Paarthurnax's instructions.

"What did Paarthurnax say?" I asked myself. "Dragons can't die unless another dragon takes their soul. That's what he said. That's what he…. I did that. I  _did_ that!" I stared at the sky, at a small puff of cloud. I could sense that Alduin was not far away. "Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill…." I shut my eyes.

_Hear me, Viinturuth! We killed you – humans killed you! Your bones and teeth and scales are being made into god-knows-what by a blacksmith! I took your soul into mine, and now I take your mind! Your mind is mine! Your knowledge is mine! Your breath is MINE! No more will you feel the crunch of our bones between your teeth; no more will you call out to other dragons from within MY body; no more will you serve Alduin! You are DEAD!_

" _KRII!"_

The foreign word erupted from my lips with a heavy vibration. I opened my eyes and watched as a silver-blue shimmer sped upwards to what had previously been an achingly bright sky. Instead of the cloud I had been staring at, the Shout unleashed its power unto Death himself. Alduin was flying directly toward me.

Upon being struck by the Word of Power,  _my_  Word of Power, Alduin's wings ceased flapping and his black scales were briefly highlighted by a brilliant purple. The Shout held no lasting effect, however, and but a breath later Alduin was again advancing toward the mountaintop, toward me.

" _Pruzah! Rodraan!"_ Paarthurnax roared from the sky, swerving repeatedly above myself and Ingjard.

"Is that him!?" Ingjard cried out. "Alduin?"

My response to the woman was a brief wide-eyed stare before I cast Stoneflesh. My body, fur travel clothes and all, shimmered turquoise. Between my two palms, I readied my most powerful lightning magic.

Everything about this was wrong. I was not meant to fight Aldiun.  _Torug_ was meant to fight Alduin. The black dragon must have sensed me, sensed my meeting with Paarthurnax, or may have simply been on his way to the mountain already and was seizing the moment.

When Alduin was within the reach of my magic, I let loose the ball of lightning. He had been flying straight for me, and the magic hit its wide target. I didn't wait to assess  _where_  the magic had hit – it didn't seem to matter, anyway. The encroaching mass jerked momentarily but soon was soaring forth again. I hadn't time to  _think_.

Paarthurnax's roar merged with a burst of frost breath aimed toward Alduin's wings. Though my frost magic was weak, I knew I could take down a dragon by destroying its wings, and frost worked well the last time I had to fight a dragon. Frost magic, and the arrows of dozens of guards. Ingjard unfortunately did not wield a bow and quiver, and for now seemed content with concentrating on keeping me alive.

To my surprise, Alduin swerved to his left, towards Paarthurnax, and with speed far exceeding that of my new friend, Alduin body-slammed Paarthurnax mid-air. The two dragons roared and, tangled, proceeded to tumble downward. Alduin contorted and reached forth with a clawed foot, grasping one of Paarthurnax's spiraling horns. With a loud crack, Paarthurnax was released. The sickening sound echoed across the mountaintop. Dark dragon's blood dotted across the snow, changing direction and creating patterns as Paarthurnax's wings caught the wind and he righted himself.

Alduin's vocalized triumph was deafening as he flew away back towards the north, but the thunderous noise that followed drowned out the echoing roar. The effect was similar to when a dragon Shouted the words  _fus, ro, dah_ , but far louder. Those words were audible through the Shout, but whatever Words of Power Alduin had just used, I hadn't heard them over the din.

The sky quickly turned dark, and a terrifying red storm cloud gathered over the mountain. Within seconds, balls of fire began to fall from the cloud. I had seen this storm before… at Helgen.

"Deborah!" I heard Ingjard call, and I was then tugged to the ground, hidden behind her shield.

"No!" I shouted at my bodyguard, and thrust her away from me. I held my left hand toward the sky and let my magical ward protect me from the firestorm. I watched several flaming rocks the size of cabbages bounce off the light blue magic shield, afterwards burning holes into the thick snow. In silent prayer, I quickly thanked Kyne for gifting me the knowledge I  _knew_  that I needed to use in that moment. Chin up towards the terror that Alduin had left in his wake, I sent forth three dragon words as loudly and firmly as I could –  _lok, vah, koor._ My ward remained, and I watched with delight and relief as the red cloud diminished and meteorites ceased to fall.

Ingjard was insistent, though. Soon the woman had me locked between her steeled body and her dark shield. I was crouching, pinned between equally icy metal walls. Squirming was futile. "Ingjard! Let me go! It's over!"

It took the woman a moment, but soon she relented and set me free. I grunted as I stood, and brushed the crusted snow from my furs. Several huffing breaths later, Ingjard clamored, "Where did the storm go!?"

Still catching my breath, I bent forward, bracing my hands on my knees. I watched the sky as I did so, just in case Alduin decided to return. "The Shout, Ingjard. The same one I used on the snow storm. It stopped the fire-storm. Alduin made it…. He made it before. The fire-storm, and his fire breath too, destroyed Helgen."

"Helgen…." Ingjard settled into a thought, and stood still for a while, staring at nothing.

I turned, looking for Paarthurnax. Recalling the blood, I followed the trail to the tall peak to the west, where he had been hiding when I first arrived at the mountaintop. He was there in the same spot, which must have had a large enough space to accommodate him comfortably.

"Paarthurnax?" I called, softly. I knew he was there. Though camouflaged against the bright stone, I saw clearly the contour of his body. Even if I hadn't seen him, I would have known. Something had happened during our first meeting, during my meditation that morning. Whenever I was near the dragon, I knew exactly where he was. I sensed him, just as he and Alduin sensed me. Their dragon sense was apparently far more acute than mine, though.

The peak was not terribly steep nor craggy up to where Paarthurnax was resting. Above him, however, I would have never been able to climb. With a bit of effort, I made my way to Paarthurnax's front, meaning to examine his wound and check for more.

The horn Alduin had snapped off, the right horn, had bled badly but was thankfully clotted over, perhaps a product of the frozen temperatures of the mountaintop. The dragon's throat vibrated in a groan when I touched the damaged, bloody mess of a horncore. The keratin sheath was cracked, split all the way to the base. Only about half the horn's length remained. Wasting no more time poking the poor beast, I held my hands over the horn and sent forth a small amount of healing magic. If nothing else, the spell would kill any bacteria that could have survived in this climate, and would also help the horn heal somewhat faster.

Paarthurnax groaned again, but rather from the relief that healing magic offered. " _Kogaan, fron. Pruz._ "

I smiled, and with my gloves I wiped clean the blood from the right side of his face. "I don't understand your words."

" _Prem._ You will understand, with time."

My hands drifted to the beast's snout, and I held Paarthurnax's nose between my palms. The dragon couldn't see me very well from this angle, no doubt. My thoughts drifted briefly to the positioning of a dragon's eyes – on the sides of its skull – where traditionally herbivores such as cows and horses had eyes. Many predators, including humans, had eyes in the front of their heads. Binocular vision. This meant that dragons used something other than sight to find prey, if and when they chose to hunt, like lizards and snakes that smell well or sense vibrations. This and, possibly, dragons needed a wide range of vision. They, too, were prey. Perhaps to other dragons.

"Have you any other injuries?" I asked Paarthurnax.

" _Niid_ ," he replied. Thinking back to our previous conversation, I suspected this meant 'no', otherwise he would have said ' _geh_ '. He shifted his wings, and like before, settled into himself like a resting bird, laying his head down at my feet.

Finding a space for myself in front of the dragon's snout, I curled into myself. Between the peak and Paarthurnax's body, I was well protected from the wind.

Some time later, I asked, "Why did Alduin come here? Why did he  _leave_? And what was that storm – that fire-storm? He created that before…."

Paarthurnax exhaled in a long, drawn-out dragon-sigh. "Alduin  _honah_ … sensed you. Sensed us both. As you may now understand… we feel the  _ahkos_ of a  _dov_  from far away. You can sense us, too, when close, can you not?"

"Yes, I can."

A rumble sounded deep within the dragon's throat. "I can no longer sense Viinturuth."

"I don't feel him, either."

"Then, you have ended him."

"Yes. I'm not sure how, but I did. I yelled at him in my mind. I reminded him that he was dead."

Paarthurnax huffed. " _Dahmaan dira_. Yes.  _Fax dur._ A clever curse. All  _dov_  are stubborn. We do not expect death, but Viinturuth dug his claws into you. He preferred living as  _joor_  to not existing."

"Did you say I cursed him? I didn't intend that."

"You reminded him that he was dead. Defeated.  _Kah ahrk zin_. You killed Viinturuth's soul. He is no more."

Knees tucked under my chin, I sat and contemplated Paarthurnax's words before returning to the other issue at hand. "Why did Alduin not kill me? Or you?"

"We are not a threat to Alduin. Today was a reminder. It is why he let you live before, at Helgen."

I scrunched my nose. "I am not a threat, but Torug is?"

" _Geh_."

"Why?"

"Torug is the  _only_  true threat to Alduin."

I sighed. My stomach growled. "I'm hungry."

Paarthurnax rumbled. "Return to your  _wahlaan_. Rest. Think upon what you have learned today. We will speak again." At that, Paarthurnax closed his eyes, and slept.

I descended the peak and rejoined Ingjard, who looked none too pleased with me. Perhaps she was finally as cold as I had been the entire time, and was ready to go back indoors.

"Come on, Ingjard. Let's go back to the fortress. I'm exhausted."

When I failed to hear a shadowing pair of footsteps crunching across the snow, I turned to find Ingjard had not moved except to throw her sword, shield, and helmet to the ground. Arms crossed over her chest, she glared at me with her crisp blue eyes.

Walking back toward her, I asked, "What? What's wrong?"

Glare. More glaring."You're an idiot."

"I'm also tired and hungry. Let's go."

"This is what I am," she fumed, arms raised to her sides, palms up. "Just a woman in armor, unable to do a gods-damned thing without my sword and shield."

"I doubt that is true. Certainly you punch harder than I do."

"Much good that would do you against a dragon or a fire-storm. What in Oblivion  _was_ that, Deborah? Fire rained from the sky and you  _shoved me away_."

"All I needed was my ward. I knew I could Shout the storm away. I just knew it."

"And you can't Shout from behind my shield!?"

"I  _am_ a shield!" I barked back at my bodyguard as I approached her, my face then a breath's distance from hers. "I am resistant to magic. My ward blocks magic  _and_  absorbs it. Dragon Shouts are nothing more than magic of a different kind. I was  _fine._ "

" _FIRE_  was raining from the  _sky!_ " she repeated. She paused, staring at me with wide, terror-filled eyes. "You heard Paarthurnax – you're mortal!  _I am mortal!_ "

 _Mortal_. Yes – we were both mortal.

It took me a moment to realize both reasons why Ingjard was upset. Firstly, in her mind I should have accepted her shield as protection. The other reason, however, hit me harder, and made me feel downright awful. I was protected from magic, at least to some extent, particularly with a magical ward raised. Ingjard, however, was not protected, not at all. Except for her shield, which served as some minor protection against fire magic, none of her armor was enchanted, nor did she boast any enchanted jewelry that might enhance her strength, stamina, or other such qualities. When I had shoved Ingjard away and cast the ward around myself, I had simultaneously rejected Ingjard's protection and refused her my own. It was an asshole move on my part, and she was rightfully pissed off.

We were silent for a while, simply staring at one another with equal frustration. Finally, my stomach decided to break the silence and sing the praises of venison stew and apple tarts.

I turned back around and started for the slope that would take me back to warmth and safety. "Come along, my sword and shield," I called behind me. My words were light and teasing, but I meant what I said as an apology. Ingjard was right – I had been foolhardy.

Still, a part of me knew I hadn't needed her shield, not against the firestorm. Against Alduin, however, had he decided to actually fight us… that would have been a very different story with a very unfortunate ending.

The weather was much more agreeable during the descent. The snow storm did not return even once, and I wondered if Kyne and Paarthurnax had joined forces in deliberately making it difficult for me to ascend the peak the first time, not bothering to unleash frozen hell again. Moreover, the stone bridge I had formed was still intact and holding strong, surprisingly able to bear our combined weight without issue.

Arngeir and Borri were in the courtyard to greet us upon our arrival. Borri looked gravely concerned, but Arngeir appeared calm.

"You survived, I see," Arngeir noted the obvious as he opened the fortress doors for us.

"We were lucky," Ingjard answered for us both as she entered ahead of me and kept on walking.

"Alduin was more interested in Paarthurnax," I elaborated. "They fought, and Alduin broke one of Paarthurnax's horns. I healed it. I suppose Paarthurnax is alright." I frowned, recalling the blood that stained the white dragon's scales. "Alduin left after the horn broke, after Shouting a fire-storm."

"This was not the first attack Alduin made upon Paarthurnax," Arngeir revealed. "We saw the storm from below, and watched you clear it. You did well."

Frowning, I didn't respond to Arngeir's praise.

. . . . . .

Ingjard was nowhere to be found when I wandered to the kitchen for a snack. I replaced back into the communal fruit bowl the apples I had taken up the peak. If Alduin had not attacked, I certainly would have spent much more time talking with Paarthurnax, perhaps even staying on the mountaintop until the sun began to set. I would have more chances, though. I just hoped that Alduin did not make interrupting my meetings a habit.

The Greybeards had no cooks of any kind to help them, but instead made do with simple meals made with bare-bones ingredients brought to them from the Ivarstead townsfolk. So far, every meal we ate was porridge or stew – basically, anything that could be cooked in a kettle and reheated as many times as necessary until all the leftovers were finished. There were no ovens, and all baked goods were brought up from Ivarstead. It was so cold on the mountain peak that the pantry, a room adjacent to the kitchen that had an open window, acted as a refrigerator. And, as expected, an ice box was cut into the floor of the pantry.

I stole myself an apple tart from the pantry shelf and left to take a long, warm bath.

There was no plumbing at High Hrothgar. Drinking water, bathing water, and cooking water was brought in from the outside in the form of pristine snow or ice, and it was always boiled down before use. The Greybeards never used the fire Shout to heat the water, and those who could not cast fire magic took cold baths. Even without the fancy sensors that the baths at the college used, water could be heated using fire magic, though this skill was far more difficult to master than igniting candles or a hearth fire. The spell had to be cast underwater, and since the water that was stored at the fortress was ice cold, the heating process took quite a while. The warm water in the end was well worth the wait, though.

While seated in the welcoming stone tub, I finally let go of all the feelings I had been suppressing. Fear, regret, loneliness, and an overwhelming sense of uselessness. The panic attack was not long to follow. My hands trembled. My mind raced. I was paralyzed, and yet needed to hit something. I punched my right thigh.

If Alduin had wanted to kill me, he could have. Ingjard could have died as well. I was not built to fight Alduin, but I was barely prepared to fight any dragon, particularly without an army at my back. Hermir and Galmar were right. I needed armor – good, warm armor that would protect me from swords, fire, and the cold. Today I had been wearing warm, fur traveling clothes. I could have been roasted. Pierced through the gut by a dragon's tooth. Tossed over the side of the mountain.

I let the panic attack run its course until long after the water of the tub had turned cold with the neglect of my magic. I missed Yrsarald's calming presence. He and I both had the ability to calm one another by just a gentle touch or embrace. But time also calmed nerves. Once mine had settled, I knew what I had to do. Not only did I have to train in armor, which thankfully was being made for me in Windhelm, I had to train with Ingjard. If she and I were to face more battles in the future, particularly battles with dragons, we needed to be prepared. I needed to be prepared. Ingjard was likely used to fighting side-by-side with others, but I was not an army or a member of the city guard. I was one person, and so was she. We needed to be a team. We needed to be able to rely on one another, to be able to know one another's mind during battle without the need of words.

Finally, I let my worries go and carried on bathing, but not before re-warming the tub water.

. . . . . .

Bathed and relaxed, I sat down at my tiny desk to write Yrsarald a letter after opening the one bottle of spiced wine I had brought with me. I poured myself one glass and recorked the bottle, desiring to save the rest for later. Part of me wanted to find Ingjard and offer her a glass; the other part of me reminded myself that she likely did not want to see me at the moment.

As I compose the letter, writing slowly, I concentrated on my grammar, which was still not as good as my spoken Norren. Knowing Yrsarald, he would not send me back a marked-up, corrected letter like Brelyna had, but he would likely inform me of my mistakes.

> _Yrsarald,_
> 
> _Today is only the second day of me at High Hrothgar, but the time, it feels like one week or more passed. The weather is very cold. In the beginning, I thought the Greybeards will not take me inside. I made dragon greetings with a dragon—_

I stopped myself before I continued. Cursing under my breath, I realized that I should probably not mention Paarthurnax. The dragon made a big deal about staying hidden on the mountain peak, and the last thing the ancient one needed was someone stealing this letter meant for Yrsarald and telling everyone that there was a dragon here. I crumpled up the paper, tossed it to the floor, and started again, writing the same up until the last sentence.

> _I made dragon Shouts before the Greybeards took me inside. They did not expect me. They expected Torug. Not a surprise. The Greybeard Grandmaster commanded for me to stay, but the other Greybeards did not think at first that I can stay._
> 
> _The first morning, today, I meditated about why I came to the Greybeards, and about what I wanted. I will tell more things when I see you, but today was very important. I learned many things about me. I learned things about the Greybeards. I also learned about Ingjard._

I decided to leave out the incident with Alduin altogether – no need in worrying my partner more than he likely already was. I would fill him in on all the details eventually, but I didn't want to do it in a letter.

> _I spoke about Ulfric with the Greybeards. They are sad for his death, but also they are sad for him leaving High Hrothgar. Did you know, only one true bedroom is here, and it is the bedroom of Talos? I sleep in the bed of Talos. Talos the man. A statue of Talos the god is outside in the front. I do not know if he is here with me, Talos the god, but Kyne is here. She is helping me learn very fast. I made a bridge from stones with only my mind! My mind and a dragon Shout. And I can clear storms, too. I learned the two Shouts only today. What will I learn tomorrow?_
> 
> _Now, I miss you. I sit at a small desk and drink wine and wish for your arms to be around me and for your breath to be on my skin. If two days feel as weeks, how long will three months feel? More than three months will pass before I see you again._
> 
> _I am reminded. Please tell Marcurio he and Brelyna are thanked, but also—_

I sat and stared at my last sentence, wondering how I could finish it in a way that would be innocuous to Yrsarald's eyes but telling to Marcurio's. I would explain everything to Yrsarald eventually, but not now.

> — _tell Marcurio he knows too much!_
> 
> _I will explain when I see you._
> 
> _Please write to me soon, Yrsa. Tell me of all things, good and bad, of Windhelm, of the war and Markarth, of you. Hold Flavia in your arms. Hug Marc and Bird._
> 
> _I love you._
> 
> _Deborah_

. . . . . .

"Tomorrow I will go to Ivarstead," Ingjard decided over dinner.

"Don't forget – sweetrolls."

"Do you think you deserve a sweetroll?"

Ingjard's words were chiding and dire. She still didn't forgive me for refusing her shield. Nevertheless, she no longer looked at me as if she regretted her decision to be my bodyguard, so things were looking up.

"Alright," I conceded, "forget the sweetrolls. Just get whatever you think we need, whatever you want, and check on the horses and our belongings that we left there. And don't forget to check for a letter from—"

"It's been two days. There won't be a letter."

"Just check," I commanded with a lilt. I hated actually ordering the woman around, even if it was my prerogative. "I also have a letter for Yrsarald to take with you."

"Did you write about how you shoved me away? I'm sure the man who hired me will love hearing about that."

The bit of bread I had been holding in my left hand crumbled under my iron grip. Arngeir said nothing, and like the other men that were dining with us, he pretended he was not privy to this particular conversation.

"I'm  _sorry_ ," I stressed.

"No, you're not," my bodyguard countered.

I cleaned up the crumpled bread I had messed the table with. "No, I'm not," I agreed. "Not completely. For the first time, I knew what I was doing. For the  _first time_   _ever_  I did not feel like I needed to hide behind something, someone. And now, I am being yelled at for being brave."

"Brave! What about staying where you were behind my shield, casting the ward, and then Shouting? How would that have been any less effective than what you did?"

Eyes downcast, I shoved the bread crumbs around my plate. "It would not have been different, I don't think."

"Mmhmm," Ingjard hummed, and continued to eat her meat sandwich as if she was angry at the bread as well.

Silence. I compiled the crumbs into the shape of a pine tree. "I'm sorry I shoved you."

Chew. Chew. Swallow. "I'm sorry I let you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my. Ice cold Ingjard. What do you all think about how Deb handled herself? Maybe Ingjard and her have to work on being a team….
> 
> Geblaan - Finish  
> Uth - Command  
> Pruzah - Good  
> Rodraan - Prepare  
> Kogaan - Thanks  
> fron - kin  
> Pruz - better  
> Prem - patience  
> Niid - no/none/nothing  
> honah - sense  
> ahkos - existence  
> Dahmaan dira - remember to die  
> Fax dur - clever curse  
> dov - dragonkind  
> joor - mortal  
> Kah ahrk zin - pride and honor  
> wahlaan - building


	31. Teamwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! We're only a couple chapters away from Meridia's Temple. I'm so excited to write that! For now, more Greybeards, more Shouts, and (later) more Paarthie!
> 
> If you're so inclined, I've created a short survey about readers' thoughts on this story: goo . gl / PK4nL2 (or get the link from my Tumblr page).
> 
> For those of you who might be wondering… big things are coming. Big, big things….. Meridia, news of Markarth and the Forsworn, where the Eye of Magnus is, what Torug is doing, and much more will fill the upcoming chapters. Oh, and yes, there will be another Torug short story once this book is done.

 

Ingjard was gone by the time I went to eat breakfast. As I stared at my bland porridge, I wondered if she planned to come back to High Hrothgar, or if she was high tailing it to some far away land.

"I think you and I should meet this morning," Arngeir said to me between mouthfuls.

I frowned, but nodded. "That is probably a good idea."

"You have earned Paarthurnax's blessing, and now you have ours, as well. No doubt, you have questions. Perhaps you even have concerns. Anything you want to know, later, I will answer."

I thanked Arngeir quietly and finished my meal in silence.

. . . . . .

"They most certainly saw clouds, but did they see the fight?" Arngeir shook his head. "Paarthurnax and Kyne keep the Throat of the World  _vordatur_  from the eyes of mortals. Can you imagine the fear if people knew a dragon was living here? Paarthurnax would have been hunted long ago. Those in Whiterun and Ivarstead likely saw storm clouds and heard thunder, nothing more."

"Is it not dangerous to Shout from the mountain? Snow might fall and destroy Ivarstead."  _Hopefully the town is fine_. I would know as soon as Ingjard returned. If she returned.

"Perhaps. But, even I understand the need to defend oneself against a monster like Alduin. If the beast were simply doing his duty as World Eater…." He sighed. "Alduin has fallen from his true path, as Paarthurnax explains it, and instead is abusing his power. One day, I fear, he will end Paarthurnax, perhaps even destroy High Hrothgar, but for now Alduin appears to be content simply annoying him."

"'Annoying?'" I scoffed. "He is  _attacking_  Paarthurnax. Has he come before?"

"Three times, before today," Arngeir replied. "The first attack was the day Alduin came through the Time Wound – I assume Paarthurnax mentioned this to you." I nodded. "He wounded Paarthurnax badly, but Einarth was able to heal him, mostly. The second time was before a town south of here was destroyed. The third attack happened just before we called to Torug, whose name was carried to us on the wind that day."

"Why do you think Torug never came here?"

"One cannot know the mind of another. Paarthurnax still feels his presence, and the wind stills calls to the Dragonborn, so we know Torug is not dead. But, as you said, Torug killed Ulfric, is helping these…."

"Forsworn," I reminded.

"Yes. Perhaps this orc has no interest in the  _sitheren_  of this land, or the interests of the gods."

"I think Torug is interested in Torug… and the Forsworn." I bit my lip, curious. "Does the wind carry my name?"

Arngeir smiled. "It does now. Before today, Torug's name was the only name Kyne spoke to us. The longer he ignored our call, the louder the winds became. Now, his name is but a whisper, and your name is the one carried to our ears."

"Did… you say that Kyne is speaking our names?"

"Of course. Kyne is the wind. It is Her breath, Her Word. Listen long enough and you will hear Her." The old man smirked playfully. "The four of us have been listening for a long, long time."

"But, didn't Akatosh create us Dragonborns? Why isn't it his voice you hear?"

"Who is it that you think gave Kyne the names of His chosen?"

"So… Kyne is the voice of the gods?"

Arngeir nodded.

I combed my memory for other questions that I had thought of previously, but were not currently coming to mind. Finally, I thought of one.

"Do you visit Paarthurnax? On the top of the mountain?"

The old man nodded again.

"How often?"

"Not often."

"How did you cross the…,"  _chasm, abyss, crevasse,_ "broken bridge?"

"How did  _you_  cross it?"

Sighing, I fidgeted somewhat and shifted from a cross-legged seated position to one with my legs bent before me. We were facing each other on a large rug that covered part of the atrium floor at the moment, but was often rolled up and tucked to the side when not in use. Apparently, the Greybeards preferred meeting in this way. Equal, both seated on the floor as if meditating, suppliant to Kyne.

I thought about how to phrase what had happened with the rocks that formed a path across the rift in the mountain. Being honest with myself, I still wasn't quite sure how it happened. Ingjard was there, watching, and would have likely been able to give a better description. All I knew was the thoughts that were in my head at the time.

"It happened like the snow storm," I began. "Kyne spoke to me, but it took some time, thinking. Kyne… and maybe the dragon's soul I had taken into me helped learn the words. I think that… the gods or, I don't know…. Whenever I am in true need of something, and I pray for help or even if I do not, the gods help me. When I was learning magic in Winterhold, I could not light a fire until the gods helped me.  _Need_  is also how I learned how to cast upon myself a cloak of lightning.  _Need_  helped me clear the snow storm, and build a bridge made of rocks."

"A bridge made of rocks?"

"That is how I and Ingjard crossed the—" I paused, and grumbled. "What is the word for the thing between two parts of the mountain? The thing under the bridge, why the bridge was made."

Arngeir chuckled. "Are you having problems with words today?"

I stared open-mouthed at Arngeir. I had completely forgotten that the man had no idea that I was not from Skyrim, or Nirn for that matter. Considering that he was my new mentor, someone that I  _had_  to confide in, as there was no one else I could communicate with aside from Paarthurnax, I decided that he and the rest of the Greybeards might as well know the truth. I explained to the man who and what I was, and why I was brought here by the gods. I explained my introduction to magic and that I was now a trained mage, though not a graduate of the college. I detailed how different this world and mine were, and that dragons and magic were literally only stories in my world. I confessed that I was constantly terrified, but that little by little, as time went by, I was becoming more comfortable in this world, and more comfortable in my own skin. I was beginning to accept my destiny, and my responsibilities.

"So," I continued, "what is it called? The thing in the rocks I had to pass."

" _Gap_."

I stared, and stared some more. "'Gap'?"

" _Gap_ ," Arngeir confirmed with a nod.

"A big,  _big_  hole between rocks is only called a 'gap'?" I figured the word meant something similar in this language, but I was still amused that the word was exactly the same, a cognate from my world. It wasn't the first time words were similar, but few if any words were  _exactly_  the same as in the English language.

"That is what a big hole between rocks is – a  _gap_." Arngeir studied me while I sat, quiet. "It is no wonder, then, why the gods were quiet for so long about you. Perhaps they were unsure. Perhaps they were waiting for you to… find yourself. Find your courage. To come here."

We sat together in silence for quite a long while until I spoke again.

"Why are the others silent? You said Ingjard would lose her hearing if they spoke near her. Why are you different?"

"The Voices of Masters Borri, Einarth, and Wulfgar are strong.  _Very_  strong. They have studied all their lives the Way of the Voice, and with their prayer they have given themselves to Kyne completely. They have lost control over the words of men. They understand, but can no longer speak. Should they do so, the land would shake, and I would fear for the lives of those who live near this mountain. Now, the words of dragons…. The others have some control over these words, but not as much as myself, and none of us have the control that Paarthurnax has. But, this is why the Greybeards use hand-signs to speak with one another. The words are limited, but the meaning is known."

"And that is why Paarthurnax and I can talk as you and I do? You have more control over the… what, strength of your voice?"

"Yes."

"Will Uthyr be like you, or the other Greybeards, one day?"

"Yes, if he remains true to the Way."

"And what about me? Will I…?" I frowned, dreading the thought of losing my ability to speak with other humans.

Arngeir smiled, full of sympathy and kindness. "As Dragonborn, I believe you have as much control over your Voice as does Paarthurnax. Tongues are not dragon-souled or blooded. You are both. Soon, like us, like a dragon, you will not even have to speak a Word to give it power. Soon, you will be able to  _think_  the Word, and its power will realize itself."

"Is that why sometimes I cannot hear the words within a Shout? Why all I hear is a loud sound? Thunder?"

"Indeed."

 _Laas_. "There is one Shout – one I learned when the dragon died and its soul entered me. ' _Laas yah nir'_. It means 'life, seek, hunt'. I began only whispering the words, but now I just breathe the words make a Shout. The words show me life."

"Yes, I am familiar with this Shout. It is the easiest of all Shouts to learn, because it is the most basic need for a dragon, to know what is around them in their world. The most basic need of any animal, for that matter."

"If yelling the words gives them power, with practice, can I…  _think_  hard on the words, and give them more power?"

"Hmph, yes, though with enough practice the Words will come very easy to you, and 'hard' will not be necessary to give the Words strength. You will understand what I mean, with time."

"Are there books here I might learn from?"

Arngeir huffed. "Books? What you need to learn will not come from books. But, yes, there are several journals that may be particularly useful to you. They contain the studies of previous Greybeards, and notes about the Words of Power."

"Are there no journals from Talos or other Dragonborns?"

"Other Dragonborns…," Arngeir gave a wry smile. "No, if the Dragonborns before you, or Talos, Jurgen or anyone else wrote down their thoughts, those pages are now gone from here."

"Jurgen?" The name was pronounced in the usual Nord way, with a soft J and hard G.

Arngeir's face did little to hide the disappointment he was feeling, no doubt because I did not know whom Jurgen was.

"Jurgen Windcaller," Arngeir elaborated, "the man who first walked the Way of the Voice, the first Greybeard. Did you not read the plaques on your journey up the mountain?"

"Oh, I read some of them…. It became very cold after I read about Paarthurnax, and I—" I stopped, sure that I was blushing, because I blatantly ignored the last few plaques. I wondered if I should tell a white lie, tell the truth, or tell the partial truth. I opted for the latter. "I could not concentrate. I needed to get to the fortress or I feared frost-injury."

"Hmph. Well," Arngeir shifted in his place on the rug, "Jurgen was a warrior in the First Era, a hero of the ancient Nords. I will find for you something to read about him, but  _pamener_ , all that you see here began with Jurgen Windcaller. His path is the way of peace. Actually, the traditional final  _strag_  to test the  _zenra_  of a Dragonborn is to send them to Jurgen's tomb to retrieve his horn."

"His horn?"

"Yes, his horn."

I was a tad confused. "Jurgen had horns?"

The shock and confusion on Arngeir's face was almost humorous. "Wh—no, not that kind of horn. It is the horn of an ancient  _eliund_  of ox, said to be no longer living. Jurgen used it to signal his troops. Only the Dragonborn can retrieve it from Ustengrav – a Nord ruin – due to the  _stragen_  that await any  _vrikinen_  that disturb the  _draugren_  there."

Disappointed in my partial lack of understanding Arngeir's words, I sighed, and lowered my head into my palms. Mumbling, I said, "So, you're saying the place is dangerous, and only a Dragonborn can find the horn."

"Correct."

I dreaded what he would say next. "And you want me to get the horn," I surmised, and returned my gaze to the man.

The corners of Arngeir's mouth twitched up, slowly, one side before the other. "Ehhh…." The man tugged at the end of his knotted beard for a short while, contemplating something. "Retrieving the horn is a trial to prove that one is Dragonborn. You have already proven to us and to Paarthurnax who and what you are. Traditionally there are three trials, and you have already  _bendt_  two of them: Shouting what you have learned from a dragon whose soul you have taken, and learning another Shout without many years of practice. You have learned two new Shouts, one that even I do not know. None of us, here, can move objects with our minds, or with a Shout. Tell me, what were the words you used?"

" _Gol, hah_ ," I answered without any force behind the words. Experience had proven to me that simply speaking a dragon word does not activate its inherent power, and without focused intent behind its utterance, the spoken word was simply a sound.

"Earth, mind?" Arngeir frowned, contemplating the words.

"You understand the words?"

"The words, yes. But their meaning as a Shout?" He shook his head, slowly. "How did you learn this Shout? Do you know the third word?"

"Kyne spoke the words to me when we needed to cross the gap. I thought  _gol_ meant 'stone'…. I don't know if there is a third word."

"There are always three. Shouts grow in power when more words are used." Arngeir smoothed his thumb and forefinger over his unkempt eyebrows. "And you think it was Kyne who spoke to you?"

I shrugged. "Who else could it be?"

The old man huffed uneasily. "Certainly the goddess taught you the Shout we call 'Clear Skies'.  _Lok, vah, koor_. All of us agree – She spoke to you. I do not see why it would not be Her, again, teaching you a Shout, though I cannot say that it could be no one else."

"Maybe it was the dragon." I looked away, down to my thumbs, and I watched them twirl and twiddle. "The dragon whose soul I had… it's gone, now. Paarthurnax said if I had not destroyed the soul, it would have taken over my mind."

"Interesting. That explains your headaches and other such events from yesterday, then?"

I nodded and looked again into the old man's eyes. "Yes, I think so."

"Do you suppose the same might happen again, if you took into you another dragon's soul?"

"I don't know. I can only know for certain if I fight and kill another dragon."  _Speaking of dragons_ …. "When can I meet with Paarthurnax again? He and I were not finished talking."

"Hmph, yes, I imagine you and Paarthurnax will have many things to discuss in the following days. For today, and perhaps tomorrow, you will read. You say you must train here for three months? We will train you as best we can, but not before  _bendas_ a knowledge of the history of this place and of the path you now walk."

Arngeir rose from the rug, slowly and with some effort. I followed.

"We will go now to our small library," he indicated as we started for the back halls. "You are welcome to bring a journal of your own to make notes in."

"Yes. Notes, I think, are very necessary."

In the middle of the hallway that I supposed lead to the library Arngeir mentioned, the man stopped, gently grasped my upper arm, and stepped somewhat close to me. If it weren't for the grave look in his eyes, I would have thought I was in trouble.

"Are you… truly alright?" was all he asked in a soft, caring voice.

I supposed he meant emotionally. After all, I had not been injured by Alduin. I had however suffered a quarrel with my bodyguard, horrible headaches, a reckoning with a dragon's soul, and learned that I was remade to be only somewhat human. After a short moment of asking myself what my honest answer was, I managed a small smile and grasped the man's hand with both of mine, squeezing in assurance. "I  _have_  to be alright," was my honest answer.

. . . . . .

The next day, Ingjard had still not returned. I continued to busy myself with books, scrolls, and journals, many of which took some effort to read and comprehend; sounding out unfamiliar words helped, most of the time. The journals of past Greybeards were the most interesting, as their words described as best words could the emotions and metaphysics of being a Greybeard and what it was like to serve Kyne. Many of them mentioned how wonderful they felt writing down all their thoughts, since many could not be conveyed to others around them.

Some of the journals and books were so old that the leather binding was cracked and flaking, and the writing wholly illegible to myself. Though I could tell the alphabet was similar to the Norren I knew, many words were changed, particularly verbs. I figured it was something like Old Norren. Perhaps this was the language that Jurgen Windcaller knew.

Not much was written about Jurgen Windcaller, other than a few tidbits here and there. He was referred to as 'The Calm', and he had a horn that he used to sound signals in battle. That was about all the extra information I gathered from my readings. In one of the old books, I recognized the man's name, but I couldn't understand what was written about him. I made a note to ask Arngeir, but the likelihood of him knowing Old Norren was slim.

Several scrolls Arngeir had put on the desk for me contained sketches and notes from what were called 'walls of words'. I recognized them immediately as the massive curved stone walls with dragon letters etched into them. I had seen a well-preserved one in the depths of Saarthal, and there was the wind-worn one on Paarthurnax's mountain. These scrolls also contained a small map of a particular region of Skyrim and a marker for the wall's location. One of the locations was called Ustengrav, which sounded like a combination of the Nord words  _us, sten, grav_ , or "before stone grave". I recalled that this was where Arngeir said the tomb of Jurgen Windcaller was located, a fact that was verified by a note on the scroll. I wondered what sort of place Ustengrav must have been to be called such.

Another word wall was in a place called "The Forgotten  _Talna_ ". This scroll was particularly long with many notes and sketches, but unlike the other two scrolls, the bulk of the notes were written in Old Norren.

The third word wall was located in a place called Angarvunde, which sounded like the words  _eng_  and  _vond_ , "meadow wound", but that translation made no sense. Since these places generally had names that sounded like Norren but were different, I figured that they were built by people who spoke Old Norren. I recalled what I learned about Saarthal, that it was the home of ancient Nords, and made the conclusion that these word walls were generally located in places that ancient Nords once inhabited. What "Saarthal" meant originally, however, I had no idea.

Judging by the translations of the word wall contents, the walls seemed to be memorials of sorts for great people. Here lies. Raised this stone in memory. The word were all engraved in the dragon language, which confused me, since I doubted dragons cared to construct memorials to humans, nor could dragons fit inside underground ruins like Saarthal. The only conclusion was therefore that ancient Nords understood Dragon Speak.

When I sounded out some of the dragon words that I had not previously known, I noticed a few similarities between the language and Norren.  _Vaat_  translated to "swear", which was similar to the Norren  _vaatar_  –  _vaat_  meant "he/she swears". Another word,  _mir_ , was similar to the Norren  _mirn_ ; both meant "allegiance", a word I learned from Savos Aren long ago.  _Munax_ , "cruel", meant the same as the Norren  _muna_ , and  _lein_ , "world", and  _se_ , "of", were completely unchanged.

One thing that struck me as odd was the word in Dragon Speak that meant "word wall" – it translated literally to "bone of the earth".  _Qethsegol_. I recalled the dragon words I had learned from Viinturuth and Kyne. The former wanted to crunch our bones –  _qeth_. The latter taught me how to mentally move rocks, or the earth –  _gol_. Why in the world these word walls would be called "earth bones" was beyond my comprehension. Another question for Paarthurnax, no doubt.

On second reading, it was apparent that the word wall in Ustengrav had been dedicated to a Necromancer, or rather dedicated to the memory of the man failing to do something with Sovngarde, which was a word also entirely unchanged.

" _Het nok bein nahgrahdinok… Azaran faal munax—"_

 _Plunk_. A plated pastry had been unceremoniously placed onto the scroll I had been reading from. The dessert looked something of a dinner roll, topped in a white, sugary, frosting-like substance made from the nectar of blue mountain flowers, cream, and butter. A sweetroll. It took me a moment to make the connection between the sweetroll and the meaning behind its arrival.

"Ingjard?" I spun around in my seat to find the redhead walking away from me, bulging knapsack strapped to her cloaked back. "Ingjard!" I jumped from the chair and started after her. The woman kept on walking, so I sped up and tugged at her cloak.

"You came back," I noted the obvious.

The woman turned. Her expression was unreadable. "Of course I came back."

"But… well, I didn't think…." I frowned. "You didn't have to. I thought maybe you just… left. Ran far, far away."

Ingjard scoffed, and continued walking. I sped up to meet her stride. "I told you," she maintained, "I gave you, and Kyne, my word. I will always come back, until I am no longer able."

Her tone was matter-of-fact. Dry. She was simply doing her duty, what she was hired to do. What she swore to do. But the woman had brought back a sweetroll for me.  _That_ was not her duty.

Acting against my better judgment, I leapt at the woman's side and wrapped my arms around her as tightly as I could. She struggled, weakly, but my arms held fast.

"I'm so, so sorry Ingjard," I began, mumbling into the fur of her cloak. "I was trying to be good by myself. But you're here. I thank the gods that you're here. We need to train together. That is what we need to do. No more mistakes. We fight together."

Ingjard drew in a long, deep breath before letting out an exaggerated sigh. She then reached up and, roughly, mussed my hair.

"Agreed, Dragon Breath. Agreed."

Confused, I let go of the woman, who began again on her stroll down the hallway. "Dragon breath?"

"I left a new tooth-brush in your room," she answered. I could hear the grin in her voice.

. . . . . .

Later that evening, Ingjard and I lay prostrate on the bathing room floor, wearing only our undergarments. The groans and muted wails we emitted likely floated down the corridors of the fortress, but neither of us cared. The ice-cold stone floor felt especially comforting against my feverish, sweaty flesh, and I suspected Ingjard was experiencing the same pleasure. Occasionally, after forcing ourselves up to take care of business, we plopped ourselves back down in a different spot where our body heat had not warmed the floor.

It was Ingjard's turn again. We had become accustomed to the sound of each other's explosions and crying, neither of us caring about decorum any longer. The only thing we cared about was that the Greybeards didn't force us out of the bathing room anytime soon. The men could piss outside, for all we cared.

After finishing another round, Ingjard lowered herself to the floor, but not before reaching for her pillow to hold under her face. She moaned with relief.

"The stone feels fabulous."  _Frab_  was the word she used. I concluded that the adjective had a number of uses.

"Like ice," I mumbled, agreeing.

She whined. "Why isn't your healing magic working?"

"Don't know." I had made several attempts to cure our digestive discomfort, including both healing magic and drinking healing potions. Neither worked, and the two of us had been plagued by fluxes of vomiting and diarrhea since about two hours after Ingjard's return. "Maybe," I pondered, "maybe different. Different to be sick. Different if… from food." Food poisoning – I was sure of it. I had been ill before here in Skyrim, but healing magic helped with that, it had seemed. Food poisoning here must have been caused by an entire different realm of bacteria or parasite, and it was the much-awaited sweetrolls that brought on this new evil.

"If this… is like my world," I continued, "we will be better very soon. We just need—" I gagged, but my stomach settled. "We just need to drink water. Lots… of water."

"Yes,  _thanks_ ," she hissed, "I know—" and groaned, "—what to do when ill."

I moaned a response that probably sounded similar to, "Whatever, I don't care."

Eventually, though still weak and feeling awful, our organs ceased their civil warring, and the two of us fell asleep holding hands.

. . . . . .

"Of course they don't want you training with swords," Ingjard agreed and readied herself for another blow. "The  _gaamen_  don't like war, fighting, or anything like that. Now come on, keep the attacks coming."

Six days after Ingjard returned with contaminated sweetrolls, the Greybeards agreed to let me take the day off from reading and meditations in order to train with Ingjard in melee combat. Ingjard held her shield high while I pummeled her with her own sword. I needed to use healing magic often to fend off sore muscles.

When I asked her what was the best way to train together, Ingjard suggested I learn her defensive moves first. The best way to learn that, she said, was to attack her, seeing her moves directly in front of me. I had to admit that I wasn't particularly thrilled to lift a sword again. Ingjard's was heavier than the little one I had sitting somewhere in the palace at Windhelm, and I was terribly out of practice. The exercise was good, though, and it never hurt to know how to defend oneself with a sword here in Skyrim.

We mostly moved in slow motion, with Ingjard instructing my movements and correcting posture and such when needed. Ingjard pointed out the best places to aim for on an armored combatant when using a sword, which included first and foremost anywhere on the head or neck, which depended on the armor and helmet. When I brought my sword to the area commanded, Ingjard defended herself in a number of ways, usually moving out of the way but sometimes using her shield.

"A hit hard enough can push me off my feet; same with anyone." Ingjard's round shield covered the midsection of her body. "That includes being hit by lightning magic, which hits differently than the others. Fire and ice hurt, but they don't have force. Eh, well, not the fire and ice magic I've been hit with, anyway."

"They can have force. My fire and ice spells don't… I don't think… but they can. I've seen it."

"Let's work a little on joined defense."

"Joined defense?"

"Yes. As in, 'Oh no, Alduin is coming with his  _balls of fire_ and we both need to take cover'." Ingjard smirked.

"Hmph. Alright."

Ingjard stepped forward and sandwiched me between her body and shield. "Alright, do that thing you did, with the magical shield."

"Ward."

"Whatever."

Standing awkwardly between plates of metal, I raised my left hand and pressed it to Ingjard's shield. I wondered if I could cast the spell without sticking out my arm, which would lessen my chances of losing the appendage during a battle.

The ward was cast just fine, aligning on the same plane as the shield. I recalled practicing with wards at the college, and watching Colette Marence, the Restoration magic instructor, surround herself completely in an orb of ward magic. The variation on the basic ward spell apparently took massive amounts of energy. Only Colette, Tolfdir, and reportedly Savos Aren, were able to perform such a feat. I had never before tried to cast the ward orb, but now seemed the time to see if I could.

The spell started with casting the ward with both hands. My right hand joined my left in creating a powerful ward that still only created a wall of magic in front of us. Casting this way, with both the receptive and projective hands joined, acted in a similar way to readying a ball of lightning magic without casting it,  _somewhat_  recycling magical energy, though not as efficiently. In the end, I began to tire, and had to stop casting the spell.

I removed myself from Ingjard's protective shell and reached for my mug of water.

"I want to practice wards more," I related. "I know it is possible to make a circle that goes around us completely, but I have never made one. I will keep trying, but I can't do it often. It's too tiring."

"If it's so tiring then you shouldn't use it. Save that energy for lightning magic and healing."

"It's like lightning balls, or runes, too – the thing I casted to set the frost troll on fire. They take a lot of energy, but sometimes that is necessary. I am told I have a lot of magical energy within me, but also that I… regenerate it slowly. Those disgusting blue-purple magic-restoring potions help, though."

She smiled. "They taste bad?"

"Very."

"How long does it take to regenerate magical energy?"

"Not very long, not usually, but sometimes it can take until the next day."

"Well, then I'm glad you're training with a sword. You might need it one day."

"Maybe," I said, looking over my shoulder. "I wonder if I can practice with Shouts." I turned back to Ingjard. "I'm curious if a Shout would go through your shield, or bounce off of it and kill us."

Ingjard burst out in laughter. "Maybe you should practice on a rock cliff instead of my shield."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, more Shouts, more Paarthie, and a package from Windhelm.
> 
> vordatur - veiled  
> sitheren - traditions  
> gap - abyss/crevasse  
> pamener - to summarize  
> strag - feat/trial  
> zenra - veracity/authenticity ("true being")  
> eliund - breed  
> stragen - trials  
> vrikinen - intruders  
> draugren - draugrs  
> bendt - demonstrated  
> bendas - you demonstrate  
> Talna - valley/vale  
> gaamen - old men
> 
> Dovahzul:  
> Het nok bein nahgrahdinok… Azaran faal munax  
> Here lies foul Necromancer Azaran the Cruel


	32. Eye of the Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTICE: I have changed my username and blog url to SCRIPTRIXDRACONUM for reasons given in my blog (link is in profile).
> 
> I deeply apologize for the delay in this update. I fully admit to being sucked into the Dragon Age fandom wholeheartedly, but this was only one of many reasons for not updating sooner. This chapter is one of the few that took real effort to construct and get right. It is full of lore and philosophy, even biology, and that is not something I can half-ass or breeze through. I thank you for your patience and understanding as I let myself breathe for a while, as I needed a mental break from this story. I dominated the first two Dragon Age games, wrote some bits of fanfiction for it, and even finished a major part of my dissertation work since my last update on this story.
> 
> I am yet undecided about where the next chapter will take Deb, but I can guarantee a time-jump. Either way… I’m fairly certain the next chapter will begin Deb’s journey to the Temple of Meridia.
> 
> That said, it’s going to get pretty ugly from here on out, with only a few shining lights in the darkness.
> 
> Thank you for all your views/kudos/comments/favorites/follows. Let me know how you received this latest chapter.

_Three weeks later…_

I was writing in my journal about my day’s accomplishments, of learning a new Word of Power and finally mastering a Shout that could throw my voice across a valley, even sounding distant to myself. As I laughed at my own scribblings about echoes and ventriloquists, a song crept into my thoughts from the deep dark recesses of my memory. I had first heard the song while in Norway, just before my sudden departure from Earth. The music had been blaring on someone’s MP3 player hooked up to speakers, as it did every day on site. The crew explained the song had just debuted, and someone had downloaded it digitally. It was not a bad song, but hearing it dozens of times within the first week of its debut wore on me, particularly after it became stuck in my head. No, _particularly_ when the men – _just_ the men in my locality – began to sing along every single time the song played. Every single time.

As I wrote, I began involuntarily humming the tune. I caught myself, chiding, and cursed my mouth’s muscle memory. Soon, the song unrelenting, humming turned into the murmuring of lyrics, followed by full on singing, and quasi-dancing in my bed.

“ _I got the eye of the tiger… fighter… mm-mm through the fire… champion… you’re gonna hear me—“_

_Thunk!_

The loud noise outside my bedroom shook me from my entrancement. The clamor was followed by low grunting and shuffling. Finally, a knock at my door brought me out of my bed. I opened the door to find Ingjard, freshly back from her trek to Ivarstead, red-faced with snow still caked her cloak and hood. For midsummer, I figured that odd, but then I remembered the elevation of the mountain and shrugged the thought away.

Ingjard was distributing gold coins to two teenage boys who quickly scampered off once paid. I initially questioned what they were doing in the fortress, but when I saw the sizable trunk at my feet – the source of the loud noise – I knew they had helped Ingjard carry it up the mountain. They were likely Klimmek’s boys, the man who made supply deliveries every so often, and for Ingjard’s sake I was glad that the family owned several carts and horses to pull them.

“What is this?” I asked my bodyguard.

Ingjard shed herself of her cloak and hood and kicked the matted furs to the side of the hallway. “A small horse I’ll bet, from the heft of it. Though, that might just be the trunk.” She gave the wood a kick, venting her frustration as well as demonstrating its dense make.

“You mean you don’t know what it is?”

“No, but it’s from Windhelm,” she said as if that meant anything. Ingjard pulled an envelope from her waist pouch and handed it to me. “Here’s the key. It came separate in this letter.”

Without hesitation, I opened the envelope and snatched the iron key, and without reading the letter I knelt down to unlock the trunk. Even if I hadn’t recognized the lettering on the front of the envelop as Yrsarald’s, I would have guessed the trunk was from him.

The trunk was packed full. The first thing I picked up was what looked like a journal, leather-bound and completely unworn – a new one, just in case, most likely. Flipping it open, what I saw stopped my heart.

Someone, likely Yrsarald, had sketched Bird, Marcurio, and chubby Flavia – a family portrait. Their likenesses were exceptional. I immediately began crying, which prompted Ingjard to snatch the paper from me.

“Oh, wow,” she exclaimed. “Look at that. Is this Yrsarald’s sketching? I think you mentioned that he can sketch well.”

“Yeah,” I managed to say. “Yes, that is how he sketches.” For such a big man, Yrsarald had a way with fine-point charcoal pencils, which were actually just hardened bits of charcoal that kept a smallish point for a time. Even with such a basic medium, Yrsarald managed to capture depth and perspective in a way I could only dream of. Thankfully, oft-used ‘setting dust’ kept the charcoal from smudging, and preserved it for a good long while.

Ingjard handed the sketch back to me and I stared at it for a moment longer before setting it back in the journal and moving on to the other trunk contents. The usual ‘Yrsarald care package’ items were there in a box – teas, lady necessities, ink and quills, and taffy. Next, wrapped in burlap, I found some random pieces of clothing, ordinary things to be worn every day, and the pair of thick fur slippers I had forgotten in Windhelm. I put the footwear on immediately over my socks, and my toes felt relief for the first time in a month. I sighed, and returned to the trunk.

Underneath the slippers was a small box, wrapped tightly in suede and tied with a leather thong. Inside the wrapping was a sealed envelope with Marcurio’s writing on the front. I thumbed open the wax seal and read the short note that accompanied a longer letter. 

> _As promised. Wear with love._
> 
> _-Marcurio_

“Love?” I asked myself.

“Hm?” Ingjard inquired.

“It’s from Marc. He says ‘wear with love’.” The wrapping was covering a black-stained wood box with a hinged back. Inside was more undyed sued, folded over once. “Ohh,” I gasped, stunned. “Oh, my….”

Tucked neatly between the layers of suede was a golden pendant about four fingers in diameter, boasting a central turquoise gem surrounded by a knotwork filigree cross and underlying designs. Holding the pendant in place were two more turquoise beads. Underneath the pendant was the rest of the necklace, a heavy gold chain bearing six smaller medallions, three on each side, decreasing in size closer to the back. Each medallion featured smaller knotwork designs, the magical symbol that resembled a triskele. Flanking each series of decorations was a small stone bead.

I held the necklace up to the light, letting Ingjard have a look. On closer inspection, I realized the pendant was shimmering yellow – a sign of magical enchantment, likely to do with healing magic.

“Oh, well, now,” Ingjard started. “Planning to ask someone a question, are you?”

I was right, then. This was the amulet of Mara that Marcurio had told me about, the one he had promised to get for me as an early wedding gift. “Yes,” I replied to Ingjard. “Yrsarald has not asked yet, but Marc says he wants to – _has_ wanted to. Next we are together, I will ask him, with this.” I replaced the necklace into its box and walked into my bedroom, wanting to put the box somewhere safe before I stepped on it.

The remaining contents of the trunk were all wrapped in dense, old leather. Picking up the first item, I knew immediately what it was, and my breath caught. “Oh, no,” I gulped as I unwrapped the large, somewhat heavy, metallic object.

“Oh, _yes_!” Ingjard exclaimed.

Armor. Gleaming, blueish metal armor, obviously enchanted judging by its faint green shimmer. Its trim was a dense velvety black cloth.

“Shit,” was all I said.

“Oh, _gods_ that is _dralana_!” Ingjard was likely drooling as she took the armor from my hands and examined it closely.

While Ingjard busied herself, I collected the other pieces. Pauldrons, thigh plates, boots, something that acted like a two-piece metal cummerbund, gauntlets, a back piece, and a hood. Thirteen. Thirteen pieces of armor in all. Under these were various pieces of underarmor, all made of that soft black fabric.  

All of the metal pieces shimmered. All of them were enchanted. I figured the cloth, too, was enchanted, if it was made in Winterhold, which was possible.

“I think I should read Yrsa’s note,” I realized aloud. Ingjard was lost in her admiration for the armor, oblivious to me.

It was a habit of mine to forget to read a letter, note, or card before looking inside a parcel. I ignored my own chidings as I read what Yrsarald wrote. The letter was long – five pages in all – so I skimmed to find a description of the trunk’s contents.

> _Inside you will find gifts from me, a gift from Marcurio, and a gift from Oengul, Wuunferth, and Savos Aren._
> 
> _The armor should fit you. Ingjard will help you with the straps. Though the pieces might feel heavy in your hands, I promise that wearing them will be easier than the steel armor you trained with here. The metal Oengul used is not steel, but is called ‘quick-silver’. He claimed the metal is preferred by battlemages, and is the main metal found in elven armor. It is very lightweight compared to steel, and protects just as well. We decided against a helm, though. Hermir mentioned your complaints about the steel ones you tried._
> 
> _The runed black fabric_ thokanetur _and enchanted by Savos Aren himself. Wuunferth would not explain to me the runes. Perhaps you will understand them. I am told the fabric, all cuts of it, is enchanted to provide magical energy, just like your robe._
> 
> _The chest, back, and waist pieces are all enchanted to give you strength. The_ jernangen _are enchanted to—_

“Ingjard, what are… _jern-an-gen_?”

“The bits that go on your forearms,” she replied.

_Gauntlets._

> _The gauntlets are enchanted to make magic stronger. The leg pieces are enchanted with stamina, and the boots are supposed to make your footsteps less loud. How that is possible, I do not know. They are light metal, but still metal, and metal is not quiet. Other than weapons with fire or ice or lightning magic, I am lost to the understanding of enchantments. Wuunferth said I need not worry myself with such matters, but you know how curious I am. Maybe you can take the time to explain to me how fabric can bless a person with stronger magic power._
> 
> _Hermir sends her well wishes. In her words, she says, ‘If the armor is too big, eat more. If too small, eat less.’ Nevermind her, though. I hope you are eating enough. I remember Ulfric telling me about—_

The remainder of the letter was unrelated to the chest contents, so I folded the papers and tucked them into my robe pocket.

Yielding to fate and responsibility, I muttered, “I suppose I should put these on.”

“Yes, please!” Ingjard was excessively excited for someone who already had fancy armor of her own. Hers was unenchanted steel, but was stylized beautifully with swirling patterns throughout. “Put on the underarmor,” she suggested, “and then I’ll help you with the rest.”

Ingjard proceeded to cover my head with the hood. After she stopped chuckling, she turned again to me, and gasped.

I eyed her, confused. “What? What’s wrong?”

“It’s….” Ingjard touched the black heavy fabric next to my cheek. “It’s glowing.”

“Glowing?”

“Glowing. The runes. They’re _blirsa_.”

“They’re what?”

“ _Blirsa_ ,” she repeated, staring blankly as if I should have understood. When she realized I didn’t simply understand, she sucked in air through gritted teeth and thought a moment. “ _Lisa blir_. _Blir lisa_. _Blirsa_.”

“Blue-bright?” _Bright blue_. I groaned. “Sometimes the little things of this language….”

“Never mind the language, Deb. The runes are _glowing_. They were not before. But on you…,” she removed the hood from my head, examined the runes, and then replaced the article on me. “It’s you. The runes respond to you.”

“Why?”

She laughed. “I don’t know! I’m no enchanter. You will have to ask Wuunferth.”

“It’s the fabric,” I noted. “I think Savos did something.”

“Savos?”

“Savos Aren, the Arch-Mage, in Winterhold.”

“Oh, right.”

“They can enchant fabric at the College. All robes are enchanted there.” I frowned, and looked over my shoulder to my bedroom. “I have no mirror. Have you seen a mirror, here?”

Ingjard shook her head. “You will simply have to trust me, Dragonborn.” And then, Ingjard was the one frowning. “This is not good, the glowing. You can be seen in the dark, like a fire on a hill, giving away your position.”

“The runes are magic, Ingjard. Perhaps they… protect, somehow, against being seen?”

“I’m seeing you,” she pointed out, shrugging and looking very unhappy.

“Wuunferth and the others do not want me dead. I’m sure the runes are for more than glowing when I touch them.”

“Did Yrsarald write about them?”

I shook my head. “Only that Wuunferth did not explain their meanings. I do not know, either. I think they are from an old mage alphabet. I’m not sure.”

“Well, let us get you in the armor, anyway,” she resigned, picking up a boot. “Hopefully you’re right. Magic runes, magic protection. Or concealment. We shall see.”

Several frustrating moments later, I was wearing the full set of armor, including the hood that tucked and fastened under the backpiece. To my surprise, the armor felt little heavier than thick fur travel clothes, and was easier to move around in. Following Ingjard’s advice, I bent, squatted, swung my arms around and jumped, testing my agility, which was only slightly more compromised than if I had been wearing a mage robe. The fit was remarkably accurate for being made elsewhere, not in my presence. Adjustable straps helped, as did the fact that the armor came in separate plates.

“Well, it fits, right?” Ingjard asked. “You feel comfortable?”

“Yes, very,” I confessed, half-spinning around, peering at my own figure as much as I could. “More than even leather armor I once owned.”

“Good. Then let us test it.”

“Test it?”

“I’ll get our cloaks.”

“Cloaks!?”

Ingjard grinned as she chuckled. “Yes, Deb. We need to see how you fare, walking up a mountain, carrying a knapsack.”

My gut twisted. “We do?”

Ingjard continued to chuckle as she walked away.

. . . . . .

“ _Fus!_ ”

Nothing. Nothing happened. This was a good thing. The Shout left my ward undisturbed and hit the snow-dusted boulder a few meters from where we stood. I let the ward magic dissipate, though I could have continued to cast the spell.

It was simple enough, teaching myself to cast the ward orb without tiring immediately. I was correct in assuming I needed to cast with both my right and left hands – the trick, I realized, was maintaining the connection of energy between hands as I moved them apart in an arc. Since lightning was the easiest type of magic for me to cast, I began perfecting the skill in this way. I was soon able to create an orb of lightning around myself, maintaining the spell for a surprising length of time, about five times as long as I could the ward spell.

“So,” Ingjard said as she approached, “wards do not enclose your Shouting. This is good to know.”

“But do they protect others from my Shouts?” I pondered.

“Only one way to find out,” she noted. “How are you feeling, with the armor on?”

“Good. I feel good. Very good. I’m surprised. Yrsarald said the pieces are all enchanted. Magic, stamina, strength…. Perhaps they knew I was not an armor-wearer, and enchanted the metal to make it feel even lighter.”

“There is no metal lighter than quicksilver.”

“Yes, but I am not a metal-wearer. I hated training in the steel. And I sweated a lot underneath it.”

“Are you sweating now?”

“No, but the never-ending winter of this mountain is probably the reason for that.”

“Are you too cold? The fabric underarmor is not thick.”

“No. I’m fine.” I turned toward the path that led to Paarthurnax, and wondered if I would have to move stones with dragon magic again. “Do you suppose the bridge is still there?”

“Stop wondering, Dragonborn,” Ingjard advised, and started up the path.

The bridge was not still intact. I was not surprised. I recalled the Shout I had learned recently, one that could carry my body across a short distance faster than the wind blew. I wondered if I could perform such a feat whilst clinging onto Ingjard….

“Hey,” I called to my bodyguard, softly.

“Yes?”

“Come here,” I beckoned along with a swirling of my hand in my direction.

Ingjard did as I asked. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m… thinking….” I bit my lip, pondering the possible outcomes. “Alright,” I said, stepping close to her, “let us try.”

“Try what?”

I wrapped an arm around Ingjard, slipping my forearm under her knapsack and gripping as best I could her cloak. Without any warning, I yelled the three words that sent me shooting across the air, but I did so back over the path we had just walked, as an experiment.

Ingjard screamed for the whole two seconds we were moving. I let her go, and she teetered to the ground, letting herself fall into the snow. She was cringing, and pressing both palms to her temples.

“What,” she began, half-shouting, “what the _fuck_ was that!?”

“A Shout,” I stated the obvious. “ _Wuld, nah, kest._ It throws my body like a spear across the wind. Not very far, but far enough, and fast. Look,” I gestured toward the crevasse edge where we had been standing. “The Shout sent us farther than the gap is wide. I can take you across. No bridge.”

“But the _sound_!” Ingjard planted her forehead against her palm. “I-I can’t….”

“Did you hear thunder? I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

“Of course I heard thunder! That has not changed. I hear it constantly from all of you, but never against my damned ear.”

“Would you prefer I made the bridge?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she stressed, her glaring eyes teeming with murder.

I sighed, but proceeded to build a bridge of stones with the power of words.

. . . . . .

Before we reached the mountaintop, I knew that Paarthurnax was in his usual napping spot upon the high peak. He sensed me, too, and I watched him untuck his wings, stand, and stretch in a similar way to a dog.

“I miss Sam,” I murmured. Ingjard didn’t hear me.

I made my way to Paarthurnax’s perch, and Ingjard settled herself against the curved stone wall across the plateau. She had brought along a book to read.

The climb was a bit more tedious than it had been while wearing fur clothes and boots. Getting used to wearing gauntlets was the hardest trial, though only because the leather gloves underneath the forearm armor were a bit stiff, not yet worn in. 

As I had done the last time we spoke, after Alduin’s attack, I sat between the dragon and the stone, blocked from the prevailing winds. When I was situated, Paarthurnax assumed a relaxed position. I was given a good view of his healed, broken horn. I had wanted to check on him during the last few weeks, but my concern was unfounded; the horn was fine. My healing magic likely helped.

“ _Dovahkiin_ ,” he vibrated, tilting his head a bit to the left.

“Paarthurnax,” I acknowledged. “Your horn has healed nicely.”

“ _Geh._ The horn was never a concern.”

“No? An injury like that might become infected quickly.”

“ _Ahraan_?” Paarthurnax huffed. “For a _joor_ ; a _hraanne_ do not concern the _dov_. _Slen ahrk sos_ are for the _joorre_.”

“’Flesh’ and…,” I pondered, translating the dragon-speak into Norren, “’blood’?”

Paarthurnax huffed once more. “You are learning.”

“I have had time to learn.”

“Time. Time. _Tiid._ ” Paarthurnax turned his head, taking in the sight of me. “How do _joorre_ experience time?”

“Days and nights, and everything in between,” I answered, overly simplistic. “Is that not the same for a dragon? Or does one day not mean anything… when you are—when you have lived for so many?”

“Mm, _geh_ , words well spoken.” We sat in silence for a time, until Paarthurnax decided to reminisce. “I knew _fahliil_ … an elf, once. He claimed to have seen more than one thousand setting suns. Perhaps… it is not the body, but _eruvosse_ which change how one understands time.”

Paarthurnax fell silent again, and I hesitated with a thought his talk of time had stirred. Biting my lip, I asked, “Do… do ‘ _dovahkiin_ ’ live longer than other ‘ _joorre_ ’?”

Again, a silence, but the dragon eventually answered with a curt, “ _Niid_.”

I nodded, accepting the answer I expected. “I sensed you, you being here, the time we were apart, and stronger as I climbed the mountain. Why do I sense you now? Why not before we first met? Will I sense other dragons now?”

Paarthurnax rumbled with a low growl, a ponderous more so than a threatening sound. “The _silsedov_ within you awoke with Viinturuth, but was… _nahlot…_ in your tongue, perhaps, chained. Now, Viinturuth is no more, and _viingge ven_ … you are free. You sensed Alduin. He sensed you before. All dragons sense you before. You will not sense Alduin until it is too late. Other _dovahhe_ , you will. Have you not sensed other _raanne_ , other _joorre_?”

“Other people? Other… what? Do you mean… I can sense people as I do you?”

“ _Geh_. Do you not?”

“No,” I answered, bewildered. “No, I do not.”

“Are you certain?”

Brow furrowed, I crossed my arms and curled into myself as best the armor would allow. I had forgotten I was wearing the light metal; I took this as a good sign of future ease of use. “I know a Shout – _Thu’um._ It shows me life.”

“ _Laas._ Every Tongue knows this. Have you used this _rotmulaag_ in the time since Viinturuth was finished?”

“N-no, no, I have not. Why?”

Paarthurnax remained silent, and after a moment I took his silence as a suggestion for me to speak – to Shout, more precisely. I turned to my side and whispered the three words. Ingjard lit up, a big red ball. Paarthurnax flamed red in front of my face. Faintly, I made out specs of red to the east – the Ivarsteadians, or perhaps forest creatures.

Then came the smell. The sound. The knowing.

Stone. Snow. Soap. Blood. Pine. Meat. Wind. Leaves. Birds. Rustling paper. A butterfly. A horse neighing. A mortal was in the courtyard behind High Hrothgar. Another, by the Talos statue in front. Two small mortals were near an animal carcass by an old pine tree. A small critter was not far; it dashed away.

I swooned. In the end, all I smelled was blood, and my stomach turned. Over the steep side of the peak I wretched, dry-heaving after only a small amount of water resurfaced.

“Deborah?” I heard Ingjard call. “Are you alright? Not more of that food poisoning, I hope.”

My stiff leather-bound fingers gripped the rock beside me as I waited for the world to stop spinning. When my breathing calmed, I answered, “Nnuh… no. No. What—?” I righted myself, and peered over to Paarthurnax. “Did you feel that?”

“What did you experience?” the dragon asked, unnerving in his placidity.

“I…,” I looked down to Ingjard, who remained at the peak’s footing, frowning up at me. I closed my eyes. “I smelled everything. Heard everything. Two young people are butchering their kill outside of Ivarstead.” I turned back to the dragon. “Why? Why did I sense all of that? I felt as… as if I was thrown from the top of the mountain, smelling everything as I fell to the ground.”

“And your companion is bleeding,” Paarthurnax noted.

“Umm…,” Ingjard hummed.

I shook my head. “What?”

“You now understand ‘sense’ as the _dov_ do. You see without seeing.”

“No. No.” I continued to shake my head. “No, this is not… _was_ not….” My fingers curled into fists. “I see red. I see red clouds when I speak those words. I can see far, but I only _see_.”

“ _Viingge ven!_ ” Paarthurnax roared. “ _Fron sos ahrk zii, kiirsebormahu!_ Never have I met a _dovahkiin_ with _mindoraan_. But, you were made, not born. _Gein geinmaar_.”

“What are you saying!?” My tone was harsh, if not desperate, but I was still recovering from whatever it was Paarthurnax was trying to explain that I had experienced.

“Unique, in your tongue,” he elaborated. “Made, not born. You understand as the _dov_ do. You are blood and spirit-kin, a Child of Akatosh. Now, your mind is free. You must learn again what you are capable of. We will learn, together.”

“Child of Akatosh,” I repeated. “Then, this means more than being a born mage. More than Dragonborn. Like you said, not dragon, not human….”

“Her eyes,” Ingjard murmured. Paarthurnax tilted his head, eyeing her. “The Dragonborn’s eyes changed to that of a dragon, when she met you in her mind. You see our eyes now – round. A dragon’s eyes surround a diamond, not a circle. Yours… though….” Ingjard made a curious face as she realized Paarthurnax’s eyes were not that of a normal dragon.

Paarthurnax snorted. “I understand, _joor_.” He turned back to me. “It is the blood. You are _joor_ and yet you are _dovah_. Even if Viinturuth had not been awakened, your body may have… reacted the same. Your _dovah sil_ was greeting mine. _Dovah sos mindoraan_. The blood understands, your body understands, even if you do not.”

 _Instinct_. I nodded, finally understanding. “And, now, now that Viinturuth is dead, not inside of me, my body and blood understand new things? Will I… understand like _that_ every time I whisper that Shout?”

“The _dov_ understand. _Dovahhe_ do not need… ‘Shouts’ for this. ‘ _Laas yah nir’_ is always in the mind of a _dovah_ – it is the mind of _joorre_ that require such help. With meditation and practice, you will understand, and not suffer.”

“So,” I continued, “I will _know_ things about… _things_ … when I use that Shout. I will hear far away. _Smell_ far away.”

“Practice,” Paarthurnax urged. “Ask, ‘How many _joorre_ are in the valley behind the mountain? Have they fish, or elk?’ A _dovah_ knows without wondering. A _dovahkiin_ can learn.”

“Tell him about the mammoth!” Ingjard breathed up at me, excitement showing in her grin.

“Ahh.” I sighed, recalling that I had craved mammoth meat while Viinturuth took hold of my consciousness. “Yes,” I turned back to Paarthurnax. “When Viinturuth took my mind from me, I craved mammoth. I have never tasted mammoth… so I know it was not _me_. I’m worried…,” my gaze lowered to a glimmering gauntlet, and I rotated my wrist, watching the metal catch the sun. “If I take another dragon’s soul into me, two dragons… more… will this happen again? You said Viinturuth was stubborn, and if I had not… destroyed him, he would still be with me.”

“You would have been lost to him,” Paarthurnax corrected.

“Will that happen… every time?” My breath caught as my question ended, and my stomach clenched.

Paarthurnax rumbled the same ponderous sound. I decided the growl was more a mimic of a person’s audible thought process.  “ _Niid_ ,” the dragon finally answered, “it should not happen every time, but, I am not you, and I cannot speak with certainty.”

“Did it happen with the others like me?”

“The others did not have _dovahhe_ to kill, but Miraak….”

 _Miraak_. The name sounded similar to the Norren word for ‘portal’, but slightly different. “Miraak? You said that name before. He was a hunter?”

“ _Geh_ , a hunter, though not a good one. He lived thousands of years ago. He was the first.”

“The first?”

Paarthurnax exhaled sharply, and I felt the heat from his nostrils. “The first _dovahkiin._ Pride of Akatosh. He may have allowed his dragon blood to take over his _joor hahdrim_. This may have… affected his will to carry out his duty.”

“Why do you think this?”

The dragon’s rumblings deepened, and my insides felt the vibrations. “ _Dov wahlaan fah rel_. All _dovahhe_ desire power. _Sossedov_ demands it. Viinturuth would have taken your body by killing your mind, but you have beaten him. When you destroyed him, what did you feel?”

“Feel? I….” I recalled fear, as Alduin sky-barreled toward me. “Nothing. I felt nothing. Alduin was coming and I did not allow myself to meditate on my feelings.”

Paarthurnax’s inner eyelids blinked. “ _Pruzah_. This is a good thing. I recall Miraak saying otherwise. What was the word…?” He bowed his head somewhat, and I allowed him the time he needed to remember something that occurred thousands of years ago. “ _Kah_ … _krongrahhh, geh! Krongrah_ , victory. Even the _dov_ feel a small sadness when one of their own dies, but Miraak felt nothing but pride and victory.”

“Pride… no,” I shook my head. “I did not feel pride. But… when I was speaking to Viinturuth in my mind, yelling at him that he was dead, reminding him… I did feel strong. Strong, and… I was defending myself from him. I was angry. He was dead, and I should not have had to kill him again.”

“Perhaps this is yet another difference between _ah ahrk fron_.”

“Do you think Torug will be… prideful, like Miraak?”

“ _Vomindok_.”

“ _’Vo… meen… dohk_ …. Not knowing?”

“Unknown. Knowing this answer is not possible.”

“Do you feel the desire for power?” I asked the dragon without questioning myself whether or not it would be rude to do so.

With three deep huffs in quick succession, Paarthurnax laughed. “ _Geh_. _Mahfaeraak rel._ A _dovah_ will always seek power. Most of the _dov_ cannot see past this. I have learned to… mistrust these desires. Power is what drove Alduin to fall from duty, to be _maar_ , dark and… cruel. I have studied this Way of the Voice, the path you are now on. I am no longer as most of the _dov_ you will meet. I understand there is another way. Most will not. They will hunt you, not knowing that you are _fron_. You will fight them. You will win. You will take their power as your own. You may struggle with this power, as you did with Viinturuth. When that day comes, you must fight the call of _rel_. You must guard yourself against the _sossedov_. But, I believe you are strong enough. _Wahl bonaar_. You were made by Akatosh to be… lacking the pride of a _dovah_. My hope is that you keep to this path.”

The two of us sat in silence for what must have been a long time. Ingjard, I noticed, had long since huddled against the curved stone wall again, avoiding the strong summit wind.

After much thought, I asked Paarthurnax, “Did you say you still feel this desire for power?”

“ _Geh_. _Zin krif mahfaeraak_. What is better – to be born good, or to conquer your own evil qualities through much trial?” Paarthurnax exhaled deeply. “Thousands of meditations cannot answer this."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize the last quote from Paarthurnax is paraphrased. This is because Deb does not know the Nord words for “overcome” or “nature” or “effort”. She knows synonyms of these words, so let’s just tell ourselves that Paarthurnax is psychic and knows which “mortal” words Deb actually understands and which she does not. J
> 
> A major, major thanks to fluttermoth for beta-ing this story, and to thesassblr for chiming in when I felt a bit lost, and to makerhavemercy and kiramackey for always being there for me to annoy.  
> \--  
> Norren:  
> Dralana – gorgeous  
> Thokanetur - commissioned  
> Jernangen – gauntlets (“iron hand makers”)  
> Blirsa – bright blue  
> Blir - blue  
> Lisa – bright, clear  
> \--  
> Dovahzul:  
> WULD NAH KEST – Whirldwind Fury Tempest  
> Geh – yes  
> Niid - no  
> Ahraanne - injury/ies  
> joor/re - mortal/s  
> dov - dragonkind  
> slen - flesh  
> ahrk - and  
> sos - blood  
> tiid - time  
> fahliil - elf  
> eruvosse - years  
> silsedov - soul of dragonkind  
> nahlot - silence  
> viingge ven - wings wind  
> dovah/he - dragon/s  
> raanne - animals  
> laas yah nir - life seek hunt  
> rotmulaag - word of power  
> fron sos ahrk zii - kin (in) blood and spirit  
> kiirsebormahu - child of our father (akatosh)  
> mindoraan - understand(ing)  
> gein geinmaar - one oneself ("one and only")  
> hahdrim - mind  
> dov wahlaan fah rel - dragonkind build for dominance  
> Mahfaeraak - forever  
> maar - terror  
> zin krif - honor fight


	33. Till We're Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following are letters to and from Deborah, written as they were in their original state. That is, no words will be presented as “unknown” to Deborah, for she would have been helped by Ingjard in understanding their meanings.

**_From the Desk of Jarl Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced of Windhelm_ **

_26 Second Seed, 4E 203_

_Deborah,_

_Only two days? Well, it does make me smile that you would think to write me so soon.  I miss you too, very much. I never doubted the Greybeards would accept you. I suppose this means Torug never answered their summons. I admit, I am glad about this. There is no word of him at all. No one has seen him since that day. If he were gone forever, I would not complain, though I will never stop longing for vengeance._

_Ulfric did mention to me once that the Greybeards claim Talos slept there, in the bedroom you describe. Ulfric and Balgruuf slept in the common space in those days. I suppose the one bedroom is only for a Dragonborn to sleep in. This must mean that no one since Talos has slept in that bed. It is an interesting thought to ponder._

_I am not surprised Kyne is with you, and I am sure Talos is as well. I am trying to imagine a bridge of stones, stones floating around you and flying to form a bridge. Ulfric did not talk often about the Shouts that he knew, but this was certainly not one of them. Is this Shout limited to moving stones? I do recall Ulfric mentioning the Greybeards clearing a storm with Shouts one day when the winds became particularly strong._

_Your writing has improved, by the way. Have you been practicing in your journals? Read my replies closely and perhaps you will improve even more. I am trying to keep my words simple, but tell me if you prefer that I write more naturally._

_I hope that I do not need to worry about why you will not relate to me in writing everything that has happened in only two days at High Hrothgar. Perhaps you do not know how to describe these things in writing? Or are these secret things not meant for most to learn of? I wait eagerly to hear of it all. Perhaps it will be even better, being told of your days there from your own lips, and not your quill._

_Do not worry about the time that passes. Soon, you will find that one month feels as one week, and in the years to come you will wish for more time with the Greybeards. I suppose, though, you can always return._

_I have let Marcurio and Bird write to you themselves. I would ask you what secrets you and Marcurio are keeping from me, but when I asked him, he only laughed, and said not to worry.  I will have to trust you, and him. I admit, I am laughing as I write this. The two of you have an interesting relationship._

_Marcurio and Bird are doing very well with Flavia. The girl is very happy and healthy, and has taken to pulling on my beard. Every time I hold her, I cannot help but think of you. Is it too much to admit that I desire a little one of our own? I suppose not. I know you feel the same. I know in the past I have said that I did not want children, for reasons you understand, but I have changed my mind completely. A conversation for another day, I suppose._

_As you must have noticed, I have sent a large trunk along with this letter. Inside you will find gifts from me, a gift from Marcurio, and a gift from Oengul, Wuunferth, and Savos Aren._

_The armor should fit you. Ingjard will help you with the straps. Though the pieces might feel heavy in your hands, I promise that wearing them will be easier than the steel armor you trained with here. The metal Oengul used is not steel, but is called ‘quick-silver’. He claimed the metal is preferred by battlemages, and is the main metal found in elven armor. It is very lightweight compared to steel, and protects just as well. We decided against a helm, though. Hermir mentioned your complaints about the steel ones you tried._

_The runed black fabric was commissioned and enchanted by Savos Aren himself. Wuunferth would not explain to me the runes. Perhaps you will understand them. I am told the fabric, all cuts of it, is enchanted to provide magical energy, just like your robe._

_The chest, back, and waist pieces are all enchanted to give you strength. The gauntlets are enchanted to make magic stronger. The leg pieces are enchanted with stamina, and the boots are supposed to make your footsteps less loud. How that is possible, I do not know. They are light metal, but still metal, and metal is not quiet. Other than weapons with fire or ice or lightning magic, I am lost to the understanding of enchantments. Wuunferth said I need not worry myself with such matters, but you know how curious I am. Maybe you can take the time to explain to me how fabric can bless a person with stronger magic power._

_Hermir sends her well wishes. In her words, she says, ‘If the armor is too big, eat more. If too small, eat less.’ Nevermind her, though. I hope you are eating enough. I remember Ulfric telling me about how small the Greybeards’ meals were. He always went to bed hungry, though Balgruuf never complained. Ulfric also said that Shouting and meditating all day, every day, made the body hunger more. I hope that Ingjard is able to buy any extra food you two might need. I know she eats a lot, as any warrior would. I myself have been eating more than I should, I think, and I do not have you here to help me exercise. (You will have to imagine my cheeks as red as snowberries right now.) I would write more of such longings, but I do not think my heart could bear it, for all the blood would flow elsewhere. (I know what you are thinking._ N A U G H T Y. _Did I write the word correctly? Can you hear me laughing at myself from so far away?)_

_You asked me to write to you about everything, in Windhelm and elsewhere. Not much has changed since we last spoke of such things. The city is doing well, at least better than years before. With the war on hold, gold has been moved elsewhere. This is not a surprising result. There are fewer complaints from the Grey Quarter. The elves have even elected a representative to speak with Jorleif on a regular basis. I am told the people will want to rename the Quarter to something they vote upon. I do not have a problem with this, though I believe the name has been as it is for quite a long time. Time will be necessary for everyone to adjust to these changes. As you might imagine, some Nords do not approve of my sympathies for the elves. Jorleif hears complaints such as “this will lead to beastfolk in the city!” (another matter for another time; as you know, I have been writing Jarl Laila on how best to go about this change without causing the closed-minded humans to riot)._

_The weapon-rest remains intact. Balgruuf and I are communicating regularly now. I will speak more of this with you when I next see you._

_I have heard no more word about undead people. Perhaps the weapon-rest is to thank for this._

_There have been only a few dragon attacks in Skyrim, one you know about, and two more recently. Not many injured or killed, but more and more I think the people are becoming fearful and angry. I am told farmers outside of Falkreath hunted one, or tried to. They died. I would suggest that you help these people and hunt dragons for them, but that is for you to decide._

_Both Imperial and Stormcloak troops have gathered outside of Markarth with war machines, fully intending to retake the city. Many, however, do not think this possible without your help. For the moment, they wait, but sieges such as these may last years. It is not your duty to do so, but I, and others, request that once your responsibilities to Meridia are completed, you join the forces at Markarth to reclaim the land from the Forsworn. This may mean we do not see one another for longer, but I am willing to make that sacrifice if you are. Once you have decided, write to me, and I will send the news to The Reach._

_I suppose this letter is long enough. I await more news from you. Take care of yourself, and let Ingjard take care of you. I love you more than I can form into words._

_Yrsarald_

* * *

**_From the Desk of Marcurio Liore, Apprentice Court Mage to the Jarl of Windhelm_ **

_28 Second Seed, 4E 203_

_Deb,_

_Never complain that I never gave you anything! I assume by now you have not only opened my and Brelyna’s gift, but perhaps used it. I do not wish for details, but I do hope that you have enjoyed it. As for “knowing too much”, Brey used a spell unknown to me to learn the measurements while in Whiterun, where we commissioned an artist who specialized in such carvings. He doesn’t get many orders, so he worked fast. I hope the sculpture was worth the gold._

_(Bird writing now. Congratulations, by the way. You said he was a nice size, but never how nice indeed! Marc is glaring as he watches me write this.)_

_Alright, I’ve sent Bird away to busy himself with Flavia. Have you seen the sketch Yrsarald made of us three? Yours is a copy of ours. The man is very talented. I suppose even a jarl must maintain a hobby, at least something more than smashing deadwood with warhammers, which he does a lot of, lately. I’ve encouraged him to sketch more. Perhaps he will be known as the Yrsarald the Artistic. Most of the time he sketches you from memory, but I think I have successfully convinced him to seek more inspirations._

_Bird wants me to tell you that Flavia laughs all the time, particularly when Yrsarald or Wuunferth play with her. She likes their beards. Bird says I should try to grow a beard, since he cannot. He has tried, but it just doesn’t happen. I don’t think I will, though. Flavia will have to be satisfied by uncle Yrsarald’s beard, and in particular Wuunferth’s!_

_She seems to enjoy silly games very much. No one ever would have believed it, but Wuunferth is a big softy when it comes to babies, and insists on playing with Flavia regularly. I think he intends to train her as a mage from the moment she takes her first step, but for now, he delights in her giggles._

_And so, I end this letter by writing about the amulet of Mara I have sent along with your other gifts (fabulous armor, by the way; I cannot wait to see you wearing it). Before we left Ivarstead, I sent a letter to a friend in Riften, who I now owe a very big favor to. You’re welcome. The necklace itself is blessed by the goddess. The enchantment is said to strengthen healing magic. I am curious to know if it works. You already have Wuunferth’s necklace, though. I wonder what wearing two enchanted necklaces does. Is it like wearing two enchanted rings? What if someone had enough money to wear ten enchanted rings? Twenty, one on each finger and toe? Or enchanted earrings? Maybe I should have my earrings enchanted. I can see Wuunferth rolling his eyes even now. If only soul gems were not so rare…._

_I have to tend to my duties now. As hard as the work of a court apprentice mage is, I am forever in debt to you, my friend._

_With love from us all,_

_Marc, Bird, and Flavia (and probably Wuunferth too)_

_(Bird writing now. Marc doesn’t like to mention it, but his position as court mage apprentice has saved us financially. I still do some odd jobs at the courier’s office, but for the most part, I can afford to just be a father to Flavia, and I’ve never been happier. Oh, and we have been talking about traveling to Riften to visit with his mother so she can meet her grandchild, something I’m sure she will be surprised to know she has. Marc hasn’t told her yet! Anyway, I don’t know when we will be able to do this, but we will let you know. I miss you!)_

* * *

**_From Deborah the Red, High Hrothgar_ **

_11 Midyear, 4E 203_

_Yrsa,_

_The armor is very very very very great! Perfect! I do not know the proper words to tell you what I think. There are many in my language. I love the armor. It is easy to wear and I can move. I do not feel tired. I do not sweat! Yes, it helps with casting spells. Please thank Oengul, Wuunferth, and Savos for me (perhaps Wuunferth can write to Savos)._

_You were correct, the time here has flown fast. I have read many books and scrolls, and have learned many things. New Shouts, and new things about me. I don’t know if learning new things about me will ever stop. A Shout I use often now does new things. I understand the world as a dragon does. I will explain better when I see you. The Shout is very useful._

_Do not worry. I am eating enough. Ingjard is too. We will never eat sweetrolls again though. We ate sweetrolls from Ivarstead and they gave us food poisoning. Thinking of sweetrolls makes me sick now._

_Yes, I am practicing writing in this language in my journals. I do not write often in my language anymore. I ask Ingjard sometimes to tell me what is wrong in my writing._

_Do trust Marc and me to not keep bad secrets from you! It is a silly thing. You will laugh when I tell you. I think we will speak with each other for days and days and days when we are together. There are so many things to say that cannot be written._

_The sketch of Marc, Bird, and Flavia made me cry. It is very beautiful. I learned a new word from Marc. Talent. You are very talented. He calls you Yrsarald the Artistic! And he says you sketch me. Are there more sketches I do not know about? I have only seen one! Secrets! I only joke. Please show them to me when I return!_

_And do not worry. I will gladly help you to make a child. Remember? Five. Five children. (Or as many as the gods will give us.) We will speak of this when I return. We will both need much exercise. (Now my cheeks are red!) Yes, you wrote “_ naughty _” correctly. I did hear some storms to the north not long ago. Was that you laughing? (I am laughing very loud now). I miss you very much. I hope when Meridia and Markarth are finished, we can be together always._

_Yes, I will go to Markarth when I can. Ingjard says it is not very far from Meridia’s temple. I will go there, and I will help. I will also think about the dragon attacks. I am not made for hunting dragons (this I am told), but if not me, who? I know I can help._

_I am certain you are a great jarl. Learn from Balgruuf and Laila, and I think everything will be fine. Make changes slowly. That is best._

_Ingjard and I already spoke about the need for me to allow her to take care of me. Trust me, I understand. She is a great companion and housecarl. She is very happy to do her job. I hope Calder is the same for you._

_I cannot write enough times how much I love you. Here it is in my language,_ “I love you”.

_Be well, my love. Do not kill too many logs with your warhammer. (I am red from thinking of you doing this! And now laughing)._

_I love you,_

_Deborah_

* * *

**_From Deborah the Red, High Hrothgar_ **

_11 Midyear, 4E 203_

_Marc,_

_The necklace is perfect, thank you. And, that other gift, also perfect, and necessary. You know me very well, my friend._

_The sketch of you three made me cry. I miss you all very much. And, of course Flavia is happy and laughing, you and Bird are her parents! She will never be unhappy. She and I agree about beards, they are wonderful. But you, Marc, I do not know if a beard is for you. What you have is nice, I think._

_It makes me smile to think of Wuunferth playing with Flavia. I always felt Wuunferth was as a father to me. But do not let him push magic onto her. If she has magic in her blood, then that is fine. I am very interested to know if this happens. If she will be like me. A mage, a Dragonborn. Nobody here knows what children of mine can be. I think I just hope she is normal. This life I have is not easy._

_I do not think I will wear the amulet you sent me often. I will wear it at least the one time, but since it is enchanted with healing magic, perhaps it will be useful. What might you enchant your earrings with? Wuunferth has small soul gems he might not worry about using._

_I am very glad you enjoy your new position. I think you were born to be a court mage._

_Tell Bird I am glad he is happy._

_I hug all of you._

_Deb_

* * *

**_From the Desk of Jarl Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced of Windhelm_**

_30 Midyear, 4E 203_

_Deborah,_

_I was worried about the fit of the armor, but I am glad to know it works for you. By the way, your last letter came with one from Ingjard too. She was concerned about the glowing runes. Wuunferth assures me that they will not act like a “fire in the distance” as Ingjard wrote. They have protection from such things. Again, Wuunferth would not explain this to me. Ask him when you return. He has written to Savos of your gratitude._

_So, you can understand the world as a dragon? Does this mean you can fly? I hope not, that sounds dangerous. (I am only joking. Sort of. You will have to explain later.)_

_I am glad you will help at Markarth. I have sent word. Nothing has changed as far as I am aware. The Forsworn remain inside their walls and do not attack, and do not communicate._

_Not sweetrolls! I cry for your loss. I will have to make sure many pies await you and Ingjard upon your return._

_It is good that you write more in this language, but do not lose your own. I know how much it means to you, to maintain that connection. Perhaps you can teach me more words._ I LOVE YOU _. Your letters are strange and round (much like you! Joking. You know I love your strangeness and roundedness. Please don’t hit me later)._

_Yrsarald the Artistic? I admit to sketching you often, from what I remember in my mind. I will show you when you return. I will also gladly smash deadwood for you, as you watch. They call you Deborah the Red, but I will make you redder! Yrsarald the Artistic? I prefer Yrsarald Wood-Smasher. Shirtless and covered in sweat, defeating terrifying tree stumps with my mighty warhammer. Are you red yet, Deborah the Red?_

_I sat here for a long time, laughing at myself._

_Yes, Calder is a good housecarl. He is much less a friend than I suspect Ingjard is to you, but he is very professional and dedicated. I cannot complain. I suppose I do miss having a true friend close by. Ulfric was once that friend, as are you. Marcurio and Bird are wonderful company, and I do think we are becoming good friends. And of course I am friends with others here. Still, it is not the same. I think of you as the best friend I have ever had. More than that, of course, but I think you understand my meaning. All these people around me, and yet I am lonely. Perhaps this means I need more time to myself. Perhaps it means I need you here, with me. Perhaps I need time alone with you. Perhaps we need five children so I will never be alone again._

_I must go meet with Jorleif, now._

_Save my letters to you. I am saving yours. When you return, we will put them into a journal. I think that would be nice._

_All my love,_

_Yrsarald_

* * *

**_From Bird Winter-Heart of Windhelm_ **

_1 Sun’s Height, 4E 203_

_Deb,_

_Marc is very busy this week, so I’m writing for us both._

_When Marc told me about what he and Brelyna commissioned for you, I must have laughed for an entire month. I’m pleased to know you liked and used the gift. Marc and I have spent enough time apart to understand completely the needs that can develop. Though I myself have never used a stone phallus before, Marc has one (but don’t tell him that I told you! That man can be so shy, sometimes.)_

_We miss you, too. I’m sure that includes Flavia. I wonder, do babies remember people after not seeing them for so long? I’m sure they would at least remember their mothers. I worry sometimes that Flavia will bond with her nursemaid more than she did with you, but Marc says if we keep talking about you to her and show her a sketch of you, she will remember. I know you will tell me, “Bird, I am not her parent,” but you are her birth mother, and that can’t be changed. You will always be a part of her life, and we will always be a family._

_I’ve thought of this too, what Flavia might be. Human, Dragonborn, mage. Almost anyone can learn spells, but those who are born with magic abilities usually first exhibit them after their fifth birthday. When a Dragonborn is first known, I suppose, must depend on when they first absorb dragon’s soul. I pray she will never go through that ordeal. Perhaps Flavia will be a Tongue. I don’t know when a Tongue is first known. Perhaps the Greybeards can answer this._

_I agree that Marc’s little goat-beard is very fitting for him. Maybe one day I will manage to grow something more than this scruff. I believe Yrsarald is growing his beard out again. The other day he asked Marc to help him with these little gold beads that he means to tie into the ends of little beard braids. Yrsarald said you liked them. He must want to look his best for you upon your return!_

_I’m supposed to relate to you that Elodie, Stenvar, Jenassa and Brelyna passed through Windhelm on their way west. They only stayed in the city for two days. I recognized some of the other people they traveled with, a Khajiit man and a young Imperial (this was the first time I ever saw a Khajiit enter the city, and others were not happy about it. I’ll never understand why). There were more than those two with them. They are heading to Dawnstar, and then to Solitude before meeting you at Meridia’s temple.  You will have a small army at your heels, my friend. It’s selfish of me to say so, but I’m glad Marc won’t be among those with you. His place is here in the palace. I’m glad you agree._

_Best of luck to you,_

_Bird_

* * *

**_From Deborah the Red, High Hrothgar_ **

_20 Sun’s Height, 4E 203_

_Yrsa,_

_In less than three weeks, I will travel to Meridia’s temple. I suppose this means you should not send another letter. I don’t know if I will receive it. Tell this to Marc and Bird too. And, tell them a Tongue may never be known. They wondered for Flavia. There is a young Tongue here, Uthyr, whose father is a Nord and mother from High Rock. He learned he was a Tongue by accident, and not long ago. He is a young man, not a child. The Greybeards say most Nords have talent for the Voice, but only a few with much practice can be Tongues._

_I am glad to know Elodie and Stenvar found the army they need. I am excited to meet them at the temple._

_Before I forget, I must write to you something I think is important. I am told by Klimmek, a man in Ivarstead, that he heard a rumor that Torug joined people called the Blades long before he killed Ulfric. This is confirming what we read in the Thalmor documents in Whiterun. The Blades are ancient dragon hunters. Of course Torug joined them. He is born to be a dragon hunter. I read a book here about the Blades, and I remember the armor Torug was wearing. It is exactly the same. I don’t know if this information helps. It is not nothing, I am sure. Klimmek said everyone thought the Blades were all killed, but not very long ago he saw someone in that same armor. Not an orc, but a Redguard. But the Thalmor hunt Blades. Maybe the Thalmor killed Torug? And of the Thalmor, you never said anything. Does that mean they are not bothering people anymore?_

_Anyway, no, Yrsa, I cannot fly like a dragon. This would be useful, though. But I do understand things as a dragon. I can see and smell and hear and know. This is very natural for me, now. Before, it was not. The Greybeards are very happy with my skills. They knew of how quickly Dragonborns learn Shouts, but they are still surprised. I can even speak some dragon words now, as I do your language (much less, though). This means I can speak to dragons._

_Ingjard is very pleased we are to go to Markarth. She desires revenge as any Nord does. I do, too. You know why._

_Pies. Yes. Let us make pies together, and eat them in bed. I will feed you pieces, and it will be very messy. Maybe a berry will fall onto your chest and I will have to lick it off. Now I am hungry! For more than pie. I will not hit you for calling me strange and round (maybe I will grab something of yours that is round!). But I am less round now. The armor still fits, though._

_Here are more of my words. “_ I want to fuck you blind. You have no idea”. _You will have to hurt your mind to think what these words mean. But you can ask me when I return. I will tell you, and then you will be the red one, Yrsarald Wood-Smasher. Do you only smash wood? What about strange mages? I know a mage who wants to be smashed. And pierced._

_I hope to see you in one month, hopefully not much longer. One day without you is too long. It hurts to love this much._

_Your strange red mage,_

_Deborah_


	34. The Dragonborn Comes

_"You are needed, Champion.”_

_The voice croons against my ear._

_Flying, there._

_Steel glints along the bottom of the corridor._

_Step. Step._

_Armor and chainmail catch the flicker of my torch._

_Careful. Find a path._

_There, in piles. Here, left where they fell._

_Toe, heel. Toe… heel._

_They’re all dead. They’re all rotting._

_Right. Left. Right._

_Iron and almonds, gristle and perfumes._

_Don’t blink._

_Shadows and shades, above and below._

_“What was that!?”_

. . . . . .

My eyelids lifted, and it took several seconds for my brain to adjust to my surroundings. I was not in the dark; my subconscious had ignited my bedside candle before I woke. I was not clambering over strewn dead bodies of soldiers; I was in my bed, in the Dragonborn’s suite, at High Hrothgar.

But the _smell_ ….

The sticky sweetness of decay hung in the oneiric air. Scent memory was powerful, with certain odors triggering memories of grandparents or long-lost lovers, but the scent memory of rot was so powerful that I would have argued it ingrained into a living organism’s instincts.

I sat up, letting my legs fall from the edge of the billowy mattress. Face firmly planted in my hands, I wiped my palms down, dragging cheek and lower eyelid down with them. With a groan, I stretched and yawned, and was hit by a desperate yearning for coffee.

Coffee was another strong smell.

I threw on my dressing robe, dipped into my slippers, and plodded my way to Ingjard’s place of slumber. No light shone from the windows yet, but I knew dawn was not long to arrive. _How_ I knew… Paarthurnax suggested the sense was another aspect of my draconic nature. There were no clocks in Skyrim that I’d seen, none except unofficial sundials such as watching the sun’s arc progress across pillars, or how the shadow of a lamppost was cast. Akatosh was the God of Time. Dragons were his children. I was breathing because of Akatosh; he remade me in his image. I was his spirit child. Child of Time, as much as any dragon… but different, and not just because of my human body. While dragons lived in and of Time, both mortal and immortal, I lived in and around Time, and was as mortal as Ingjard. Or, at least, that was the working hypothesis. I both did and did not, should and should not exist. That was as much as Paarthurnax knew; that was what the Elder Knowledge spoke. It certainly explained why I could mosey through powerful wards.

Ingjard’s snores were the pleasant sort, much like Yrsarald’s. Soft and firm, her snores let one know she was there, sound asleep, safe. I sat on my heels for a while, watching her nostrils flare with each inhalation. Since there were no mirrors at High Hrothgar, Ingjard had not been applying her dark, ruddy makeup. In the lumen of a weak Candlelight spell I had cast to light my way to her, she glowed. She was prettier without makeup, in my opinion, though somehow far less fierce.

Eventually the woman stopped snoring, and made slight, waking movements. Her left eye peeped open, and a sparkle reflected the modest magical flame that hovered over my head. Both eyes were now half-open, and she leered at the dark window.

“Are we under attack?” my bodyguard questioned, groggy.

I smiled. “No.”

Ingjard flopped on the bed, showing me her back. “Then let a woman sleep.”

“We’re leaving today,” I whispered, standing. “We’ll sleep tonight in Ivarstead, and tomorrow, the Falkreath camp.”

I turned to leave, but stopped when I heard rustling. Ingjard pushed herself from her bed and approached me. “Today? Is it time? I thought you said three months. There is still a week left.”

“Three months, or something close to that. I am being summoned.”

“Summoned? Did Meridia speak to you?”

The dream-smell reinvaded my nose, and I closed my eyes. “Yes,” I muttered as I turned away, “something like that.”

. . . . . .

It was raining when we finally arrived at the stables outside of Whiterun. It had been raining since the previous night, before we arrived at Riverwood. The treated leather cloaks did little to protect us from the constant deluge, but thankfully the days, like the rain, were warm. Snowflake, Potato, and our nameless, handsome, one-eyed packhorse I eventually named Odin were all doing just fine, but were likely welcoming the night they would spend in from the rain.

Our supply of gold coins was running a bit low, so Ingjard had the idea to ask her sister for some money and food, and to ask her to let us stash our belongings in her home. We wouldn’t need a lot of what we had while on the road, and since we were to go to Markarth after our business at Meridia’s temple, we would be passing Whiterun on the way home to Windhelm in any case. At first, I was worried about leaving behind my older journals, filled with sensitive material, and the expensive amulet of Mara, but the trunk they were within locked, and I had no reason not to trust Eyleif, Gerdur and the rest of the household to not open it.

The family reunion was a festive one, filled with laughter and bubbly Sighulf giggles. We spoke of my time at High Hrothgar, of Ralof who had sent favorable word from The Reach outside of Markarth, and of rumors surrounding Jarl Balgruuf and his desire to be High King. Later, Eyleif happily gave up her bed for me, joining Ingjard in the front room for sisterly chatter long into the night. The warriors made do with animal furs and bedrolls, cuddling Eyleif’s son in between them. Gerdur and Hod slept in the large room upstairs, with their growing son Frodnar in the smaller room across the hall, where Eyleif and Ralof used to sleep. Before I fell asleep in the closet-with-a-bed behind the dining area, I overheard Eyleif telling Ingjard that Frodnar was just two years from joining some people called the Companions.

“Companions,” I muttered to myself. My thoughts flitted to Selina, the Redguard werewolf ex-Companion and ex-lover of Vilkas, the Companion werewolf we rescued from the necromancers. I decided that in the morning, I would ask Ingjard if she thought it a good idea to visit the Companions, and perhaps recruit them for our cause.

. . . . . .

“We’ve already sent two of our own with Selina,” Vilkas related to us. “Njada and Athis were just getting on our nerves, being honest. They consider this little trip to be their honeymoon.”

“Honeymoon?” I asked, laughing. The very thought of people _enjoying_ a trip to the countryside to stop a powerful necromancer and possibly kill hordes of undead was absurd to me. “You said they left with Selina? Your—the city guard?”

“Right,” Vilkas confirmed, nodding. “Her and that older _batna_ fellow left a few months ago with some other elves.”

Ingjard and I exchanged a look, figuring the ‘older’ something fellow was Stenvar.

“There must be fifty people here, at least,” Ingjard noted. “You only gave Stenvar two of your warriors?”

“He didn’t want more,” the werewolf answered with a sneer. “He’s welcome to more should he need them, but we can’t spread ourselves too thin, here. Whiterun is central to all of Skyrim. Should any other Hold need help, we need to be ready. If there ever _is_ an undead army… or whatever… let us know. You’ll have our aid.”

“What about Markarth?” I asked. “What about defeating the Forsworn army?”

Vilkas smirked. “Why do you think only fifty-some people are here? We signed a _samnin_ with Balgruuf months ago. The Companions don’t get involved in wars, not ones between countries, but the Forsworn are another matter. Defending this land and its people is what we do.”

“Unless Skyrim is at war with another country,” I clarified for myself.

“Brother,” a thicker, taller, dirtier version of Vilkas called as he approached. “You’re needed downstairs.”

Vilkas nodded at my bodyguard and me before hurrying away with a man who was likely not just his brother in name.

As we left the millennia-old mead hall, I took in the sight of the courtyard below. The central tree, Gildergreen, still dead, provided a sad and yet overbearing ambience. I let myself reminisce on the wonderful moment I had spent with Yrsarald beneath said tree before I descended the steps and returned to Eyleif’s house.

“Must you leave so soon?” the bubbly redhead warrior mother-goddess pleaded as she dug her fingers into Ingjard’s leather cloak.

“We must,” I confirmed.

As Ingjard cuddled little Sighulf once more, I let Eyleif hug me before I said my goodbyes to Gerdur and Hod.

“Please,” Gerdur bade, handing me an envelope, “give this to Ralof when you see him at Markarth. And make sure he’s looking after himself, yes? Sometimes he forgets mortals need to wash their hair, once in a while, battles or no.”

“Gerdur….” Eyleif eyed her soon-to-be sister-in-law, but eventually chuckled under her breath. Winking at me, she whispered, “It’s true, unfortunately.”

“He bathed regularly when I lived in Riverwood,” I blurted, and immediately turned to pick up my knapsack to hide my blushing. “Well, we must go. Be well, everyone.”

Ingjard and Eyleif clung to one another one more time before I tugged at her cloak and nodded my insistence at the door.

. . . . . .

Two days after leaving Whiterun, we arrived at a fort in a Hold called The Pale, of which Dawnstar was the capital. Though it was summer and I was not feeling particularly cold, there was some snow on the ground. The fort property seemed oddly desolate, but night had fallen and I figured everyone had gone inside.

“Fort Dunstad was retaken by the Stormcloaks not too long ago,” Ingjard informed. “There was a problem with outlaws and highway bandits, but no longer. Frorkmar should be here.”

“Frorkmar?”

“The man in charge of the Stormcloaks in Dawnstar. I always thought he looked a lot like Yrsarald, just… meaner.”

After we stabled our horses, we were greeted by a large man with icy eyes who, indeed, looked like he could have been Yrsarald’s brother.

“Dragonborn! I am so very pleased to see you.” The soldier’s arms were wide with acceptance, and then his hands laid claim to my shoulders. “Welcome to Fort Dunstad. I am Frorkmar Banner-Torn. Please, I’ll show you to your room.”

I turned back to Ingjard, who only smiled and nodded her encouragement.

Frorkmar led us to a large, two-bed room complete with a hearth. An officer’s room, apparently. There were more cobwebs inside than usable items, but the beds looked comfortable enough.

“Unload what you like,” he suggested. “Dinner is hot; everyone’s in the hall.” The commander took in the sight of me in my armor, and nodded appreciatively. “The men will take great joy in seeing you like this.” I smiled, and he turned left down the corridor.

As soon as Frorkmar was gone, my facial muscles reset from their superficial glee. “I am going to feel like a famous statue that everyone has come to see.”

“A famous statue?” Ingjard asked, utterly confused, going by her tone.

“Yes. ‘Ooh, look, the Dragonborn. I have always wanted to see it. Look how tall and shiny. Can I touch it?’” I shook my head as I shed myself of my leather cloak. “I don’t want all eyes on me.”

“Shall I walk beside you naked, then? Tits are shinier than metal.” I turned to my bodyguard, shocked by her suggestion. A brow was raised and her lips curled in a theatrical, wicked grin.

She was joking. Of course she was joking. I laughed, and groaned. “Let us just go. My stomach is yelling at me.”

“You’re nothing but a hungry warrior,” Ingjard said, wrapping an armored arm around my shoulders. “Jarl’s woman or no, act like you’re no different, and you’ll do just fine, despite Galmar wanting you to be a warrior-queen to inspire his troops. I think you, existing, is enough for them. Just smile and eat your fill, burp a few times…. They’ll love you, just like the Falkreath camp folk.”

“Can you imagine if I did not look like a Nord?” I asked as we started down the corridor in the direction Frorkmar had turned. “What if I were an Argonian? A Khajiit or Bosmer? Or an Imperial? I would have to do a lot more than eat and burp for the Stormcloaks to like me.”

“I can’t argue with that. But, you do not have a tail, and you are seen as a Nord. There is no need to wonder ‘what if’.”

“But I do wonder ‘what if’. I wonder all the time. Torug is an orc, so why not a Khajiit Dragonborn? In my world, there are only humans, and I could not be anything but Nord, Imperial, Redguard, or from High Rock. I look like I am Nord, and the Stormcloaks are Nords. I only wonder what this world would be like right now if I looked different.”

“Maybe someday, someone will write a story about that.” Ingjard smiled as she mused, and before I could respond, we found the meal hall.

The fort fell silent. Mouths halted their chewing and conversation paused. Everyone was eyeing either me, Ingjard, or us both, and the only person in the room who moved was Frorkmar. He stood and said nothing, apparently not needing to introduce me or my companion. But next to him were two empty seats, and on the table, platters full of food, and various pitchers between them. I smelled ale or beer.

Ingjard and I took our seats on either side of Frorkmar, and the room ignited with conversation.

“Yrsarald writes that you are headed for Kilkreath Ruins in Haafingar, and then traveling to Markarth.” The commander made the statements before ripping off a chunk of meat with his teeth from the rack of beef ribs settled between his greasy fists.

“Yes, that is correct,” I confirmed.

“And what are your plans for Markarth?” he asked me, eyes on his food.

I swallowed a bite of stew. “I have no idea. I will do what is needed of me. I have never been there, and when I arrive others will have been there for many months.”

His eyes still did not meet mine. “Will you use your gods-given talents?”

He meant my Shouting. I had thought about it, what I might do with my Dragonbornness. Though the Greybeards pitched a religious purpose for Shouts, they recognized that The Voice could be used in times of ‘great need’, to defend. In reality, an attack on Markarth would not be defense, but vengeance, and using Shouts at Meridia’s temple, if it came to that, would not be much different. But after what the Forsworn did to that little girl, a prophetess of Dibella, and other little girls as well, I could not rest until I did what I could to avenge them.

“Yes,” I answered Frorkmar as I reached down the table to a plate full of meaty ribs. “I will Shout away the Forsworn.”

. . . . . .

 _Wack_.

“Gods-damned midges!” I squealed before feeling yet another welt form on my cheek. My armor covered every bit of me except, of course, for my face. It was too warm for scarves, so I did not have one to wrap around my head as a final barrier. “They were not a problem in Riverwood! The itching!!!”

“Different Hold, different midges,” Ingjard informed flatly while I used healing magic to soothe the allergic reaction. “Hjaalmarch is basically all swamp. And it’s Last Seed. So, midges. Midges _everywhere._ ”

“Hjaalmarch. Is Hjaalmarch big? How far west does it go? Solitude is not in this Hold, right? It’s in…,” _half-finger, half-finger_ , “Haafingar, right?”

“Right.”

“And Meridia’s temple is near Solitude.”

“It is.” Ingjard peered at me from her horse, Potato. “You’re the one who has seen the place in your visions. Did the area look swampish to you?”

“No, it did not. The temple is on a hill. And it is west of Solitude… and there was snow, but it is summer. There may not be snow.” I sighed, and refrained from scratching my collection of bug bites. “Morthal has an inn, right?”

“It’s the capital of the Hold; of course it has an inn. And thanks to my sister, we can afford to stay there.”

Morthal did have an inn, but it was dilapidated and moldy, and there were still midges inside. And toads. Ingjard and I had to share a room with one big bed, which was no worry. The bed smelled awful, though, much like the half-ruined inn in post-dragon-attack Riverwood.

“Oh, no,” I groaned after I reached into the small leather pouch where I kept my bottles of potions. Pulling out my hand, I found it painted with sticky purple-brown syrup, a mix of the various concoctions I carried. Several bottles had been crushed at some point, and shards of glass sprinkled across the intact bottles. I showed Ingjard the mess on my hand and frowned, deeply. “I need to wash what bottles remain, and buy more.”

“Alright. The shop might still be open.”

“They’re expensive, Ingjard. I usually am given potions by Wuunferth, or, well, everyone else I know.”

“Buy what you think you need. It sounds like we will have many people with us. I don’t want to rely on someone else for a supply of potions.”

Morthal was more of a village than a town. More people lived in communal buildings than individual houses, and the small trade shop was little more than a closet. I checked there first for potions, but the shopkeeper had none that I needed. Next to the small shop, I found the local alchemist’s storehouse. Though the door was unlocked, no one was inside. No prices were marked anywhere in the shop, and I didn’t feel comfortable simply leaving a few gold coins and taking what potions I needed.

I made my way back to the inn, deftly avoiding midges as best I could. I asked the innkeeper, a Redguard woman, if the alchemist was in the inn, or if there was somewhere else in town who sold potions.

“There’s a man, Falion,” the woman answered, “lives at the end of the walkway down from the guardhouse. He should be home right now. Tell him Jonna sent you.”

Falion, another Redguard, was indeed home, and name-dropping from behind a closed door won me an instant pleasant greeting and a “Please, come in.” I was beginning to wonder why the woman had been so free with her information about this man, and if she told everyone about his existence. I could have been a dangerous person, after all. But my curiosity ended with what the man said next.

“It isn’t every day I receive the Dragonborn.”

I turned to find Falion had lowered the hood of his ragged blue mage robe. His hair was pulled back in four tight cornrows, and he wore a shimmering gold medallion around his neck. My shock at my recognition must have been visible upon my face, because he was smiling and began to chuckle.

“Yes, I know who you are. Deborah the Red, is it? Champion of Meridia? After the _stornegrin_ , news about you spread fast.” Falion smiled and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re shorter than I expected. I’m Falion, local mage,” he said while bowing. “So, what is it that you need?”

A stirring to my right caught my attention. Only then did I notice the young girl, probably a Nord, sitting on a chair, reading.

“Hi!” she chirped before returning to her book.

“I, eh,” I turned back to Falion, “I just need some potions. Healing and magic regenerating.”

“Is that all?” he asked as he started for a tall shelf packed full of items. “I heard you yourself were an enchanter. I can’t interest you in any soul gems?”

“Not today, thank you.”

“Alright then. How many vials?”

“Two of each, depending on your price.”

“Please, for the Dragonborn….” His sentence hung unfinished as he planted four vials in my right hand.

“What? No, please, I’ll pay.”

Falion chuckled. “I have little need for your money. As you can see,” he gestured to his garb that had seen better days, “we live simply, here.” Falion pressed my fingers around the vials he had given me and walked back to his enchanting table.

“Thank you, Falion. Truly.”

The man nodded, and I turned to leave. As my hand reached toward the door handle, something stopped me. There was no sound, no light, no signal at all, but I was stopped in my tracks. A silent whisper tugged at my ear, and a shiver traveled down my spine. I turned back to Falion, who had noticed I had not left, and then looked to the little girl, who was oblivious to me. But the presence of a content child was not why I halted, nor was there anything curious about Falion himself. There was something else amiss in this house, and my nagging curiosity would not let me leave.

“Did you change your mind about the soul gems?” Falion asked, perfectly calm.

I turned away from the mage and looked to my feet. The pointed toes of my armored boots caught the hearth fire light, and shone gold rather than the blue-grey of quicksilver.

Instinct. Instinct. Paarthurnax told me my _knowing_ would be heightened, with or without the use of the Shout that showed me life forms, but, particularly, _with._

 _Laas yah nir_ , I mouthed, not giving the words air, but still unable to activate the Shout by merely thinking the words.

My own body flashed red. Falion and the young girl flashed red. Yet, something odd about my feet….

 _Concentrate. Concentrate_. My feet were glowing too brightly. _What do you know?_

_There, below, three things, unbreathing, unharmed._

Unbreathing. The Shout that I liked to call ‘Life’ for its first word only showed me living, or unliving, things, but never dead things, and never inanimate objects. Before the red fog faded, three distinct objects took form. Whatever they were, they were underneath this house, and were alive, yet not breathing. I was certain casting an undead detection spell would have confirmed my understanding.

My eyes shot to Falion. The shock on my face must have been clear, because his smile dissolved in an instant.

“Agni,” Falion said, still eyeing me, “I’ll be right back.” He must have spoken to the girl, who said nothing. Falion approached, opened the door and, pressing his hand to my back, gently urged me outside, him following. The door slammed behind us with a loud _clack_.

“I should have figured you would sense something,” he admitted, sighing. “Champion of Meridia, a mage, and a Dragonborn. Though, I have no idea what the _sidnare_ is able to do.” He turned to me, frowning. The caution in his eyes was genuine. “I assure you, whatever it is that is running through your mind, it is not the truth.”

As I advanced upon the man I had just met, the man who had just moments ago gifted me expensive potions, I whisper-shouted, “You have undead things in your basement!?”

“Please,” he bade, palms pressed toward me – a plead for me to be silent. “It is not what you think.”

“Explain,” I demanded, arms crossed.

“They are vampires – newly cursed. They wish to be cured. They are protected here; I have warded my basement from detection. How you knew….” His brow creased. “How _did_ you know?”

I enunciated my answer, “Meridia. Mage. Dragonborn,” as if what I was explained everything. And it would have to, because I was not about to divulge my bag of tricks to a stranger with vampires in his basement. “Are you saying you plan to cure them?”

“That is exactly what I am going to do.” Falion calmed, then, and his body relaxed. A small splash to my left caught my attention, and I watched the water next to the boardwalk ripple. Another midge found its way to my neck, and I smacked myself, hoping to kill the perpetrator.

I groaned. “Must we speak outside? I am dinner for the bugs, here.”

“Agni does not need to know of my business.”

“The girl?”

“My adopted daughter, yes.”

“She has no idea she lives above vampires.”

“No, and that is not going to change tonight.”

I eyed the man a moment longer. “You can cure vampires.” It was not a question, but a statement said for clarification. I knew my tone conveyed disbelief.

“Yes, I can,” Falion answered immediately. “They are waiting for the proper time for me to perform the ritual.”

I had no reason to disbelieve the man. Whatever instinct that awoke within me after I destroyed Viinturuth detected nothing odd about Falion, and I knew he himself was not a vampire. A worry hung at the back of my mind, though, that what had been happening at Evil-Glow Fortress in Whiterun Hold was also happening here. Vampires, held prisoner, tortured and experimented upon. But this was just a worry, and not a suspicion. I wasn’t about to accuse the man I just met of anything vile, particularly without Ingjard at my back, and when my ‘dragon sense’ told me the beings in the basement were unharmed.

I decided to leave the matter be, but not before asking the man something.

“Can you cure we—werewolves?” I substituted wolf for bear, ever protective of Yrsarald’s true identity.

“Werewolves?” Falion’s eyebrows rose. “I’ve never tried. You… do you have a reason for asking me this?”

“I might,” I answered quickly, defensive. “Do you think it possible?”

“Possible, sure,” the man answered, shrugging. “But such a thing would require much research, and I have no werewolves to practice on.”

I nodded, satisfied with his conclusion of “maybe”. I gave a shallow bow of my head. “Thank you, Falion,” I said as I left.

. . . . . .

“Why have we stopped?” Ingjard asked from her mount. She had turned back after realizing that I, still sitting upon Snowflake, had halted the horse.

“There is a dragon near,” I informed my bodyguard, eyes still on the sky. I didn’t know exactly where the dragon was, or if it was hostile, but I did know that if I could sense the dragon, the dragon sensed me long before. I nodded northwest, the direction we were heading, toward a town appropriately called Dragon Bridge.

There was something else, too, agitating my senses, in that direction. My paranoia was mounting.

“Is there another way to the town?” I asked Ingjard.

“Not that I’m aware. Without a boat, anyway.”

Breathing deep, I nudged Snowflake’s flanks with my heels and onward we pressed, though at a wary pace. Ingjard had said we would not reach Dragon Bridge until after nightfall, as the shack we stayed in the night before was somewhat closer to Morthal than the smaller town to the northwest.

When the sun was nearly set, we were on the road north-northwest, a sign we were nearing the ancient bridge that led to the town. The further we rode, the deeper my sense of foreboding became.

“Something is wrong, Ingjard,” I related, but did not stop Snowflake from advancing.

“What do you mean?”

“Something ahead is… I feel wrong. Bad. Like, my stomach is telling me not to go further because something bad will happen.”

Ingjard pulled on Potato’s reins. “Can your ‘dragon sense’ sense anything more certain?”

“ _Laas yah nir,_ ” I whispered aloud, needing the extra oomph voiced words gave to the Shout.

Not a second later did I know that a fox skulked to my left, a flock of birds rested in a tree up ahead, and a large group of hostile mortal somethings waited along the road. If only the instinct could have told me more.

“A group of people ahead are not our friends,” was what I told Ingjard. “I do not know if they know we are coming, but they will not be happy to see us.”

“On the road?” she asked.

“I think so, or very near it.”

With a terse nod, Ingjard pulled Potato’s reins to the right, kicked her heels and clicked her tongue, and left the road for the hills inward. Snowflake followed her equine friend.

“Whisper your dragon words as much as you need to, Dragonborn,” Ingjard suggested. “If something is wrong, whistle – don’t yell.” She peered back to me. “You can whistle, yes?”

“Yes.”

The sun had set by the time we saw buildings to our left, situated along the road. The foreboding feeling increased to the point of nausea, and I was glad for the horse beneath me, as my legs would have surely given way. And then, I knew.

“Elves,” I whispered as we carried on our slow pace.

“Elves?” Ingjard asked.

“Enemy elves. Many, many enemy elves.”

“How in Oblivion do you know they are enemies?”

“I don’t know how. I just know.”

“Do you think they are Thalmor?”

The thought made sense, but I did not answer her question. I simply knew that if we had kept on the road north, we might not have lived to see the sunrise.

Finally, lanterns ahead illuminated the massive stone bridge Ingjard had described to me. She had only crossed it once, but the memory stayed with her. We flanked whatever settlement blocked uninhibited access to Dragon Bridge, and just as we approached the bridge from the hillside, a domineering presence made itself known to me.

 _Dragon_.

Not wanting to remain in the countryside any longer, I kicked Snowflake’s flanks and urged her into a trot. Whatever was about to happen, I was going to cross that bridge. The town where we would slumber tonight was located immediately beyond the structure, and no elf or dragon was going to keep me from a bed at its inn.

 _Yol._ The word sounded upon the dusk breeze as an explosion of urgency rather than a mere word. Snowflake faltered and whinnied, and though I urged her onwards, I turned back to the settlement south of the bridge.

Whatever buildings had housed hostile elves were now aflame. The dragon’s silhouette swerved above the flames before swooping in for a second attack. Again, I heard the word. Fire. _Yol._ Fatal screams carried after the thunderous dragon word, and I felt the mortal lives behind me fade.

Land. Hoof beats dulled from clacking to faint thuds. We continued up a hill toward a lantern-lit town, where we quickly came upon a crowd of onlookers, surely taking in the sight of the dragon attack.

Aided by firelight, I caught Ingjard’s gaze.

“Should I… stop the dragon?” I asked her, entirely unsure of what to do. I was not a dragon hunter, but I had the ability to at least help kill a dragon. What my gut told me to do, though, was nothing. The dragon did not attack me; the dragon never came near me, and there was no way it did not know exactly where I was. Even now as it remained above the settlement, I could feel its presence, and its intent. While the elves created an aura so antagonistic I became ill, I knew in my heart that the dragon, whose presence I had felt long before we came upon the elves, had no intention of attacking me. The thought was absurd, but I couldn’t ignore the possibility that the dragon was protecting me, defending me from those who might mean me harm.

In the end, Ingjard did not answer my inquiry. Her hand was upon the hilt of her sword, but she only sat on Potato and watched the flaming carnage to the south.

I dismounted Snowflake and flexed my legs, reminding them that they were built for standing and walking, not straddling a wide, rounded seat.

As I rubbed the horse’s neck and watched the attack continue, a familiar voice perked my ears. I turned to find its owner, and my gaze was met by a half-dressed man, eyes smiling through his otherwise shocked expression.

The man stepped forward, and the bright blue glow of my runed armor further illuminated his features. With a smile and a laugh, he greeted me.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

* * *

_Batna - burly/muscular_

_Samnin – contract_

_Stornegrin - Moot_

_Sidnare - latter_

 


	35. Sing Me a Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, thank you all for your continued patience as I attempt to balance my passion with my profession. I’m still in the middle of writing my dissertation, but occasionally feel the unavoidable need to continue writing Deb’s story.
> 
> And thank you all for your encouraging words both on here and on tumblr. Your comments give me life.
> 
> If you don’t use Tumblr you can still bookmark this page to watch out for any progress updates:  
> [ScriptrixDraconum.Tumblr.com/tagged/updates](http://ScriptrixDraconum.Tumblr.com/tagged/updates)

Stenvar’s strong, bare arms grappled my entire upper body, squeezing the self-adjusting metal segments that made up my armor. Though his embrace limited my mobility, I returned my friend’s hug.

“Elodie said you’d be here, soon,” he murmured into my ear, still holding me tight. Behind Stenvar was a familiar face, her glowing, silver eyes a stark contrast to her deep brown skin.

“Selina?” I called, wriggling free from Stenvar’s grasp. I heard Ingjard dismount her horse and approach behind me.

“Hello again, Deborah, Ingjard.” The Redguard nodded to each of us in greeting. She was wearing only linen nightclothes, but had grabbed her bow and quiver of arrows nonetheless.

I approached the woman and we clasped forearms. Her movements and expression were stiff and obligatory; something was bothering her. I smiled anyway. “Vilkas told us you had left Whiterun with Stenvar and two Companions.”

“That’s right,” Selina confirmed. “Njada and Athis left a few days ago to set up camp at the temple. Others are either waiting there or in Solitude.”

Selina was about to say more, but she was interrupted by a dozen or so Imperial soldiers and guards shouting frantic orders to one another as they rushed to the bridge and across toward the elves. Several archers took aim as best they could, trying to lock onto the dragon as it circled the settlement and continued to send dragonfire onto an already flaming mess.

“Shouldn’t you be helpin’ ‘em?” Stenvar asked.

I turned to find him looking my way, and I held my tongue. Giving the dragon one more glance, I was confident that it was indeed not going to attack me, or the town. I also did not want to attract any attention to myself. At least, no more than I likely already had as a newcomer wearing glowing armor.

“No,” I answered, “I’m not going to help.” Turning back to Stenvar, I requested, “Let’s go. Inside. Quickly, please.” I started up the hill toward the town border, leading Snowflake by her reins, not waiting for Stenvar’s instructions on where exactly to go. I wanted to get away from the dragon attack before anyone recognized me, before anyone even assumed to think I was in any way capable of helping, let alone willing to. Thankfully, no one said a word.

Stenvar trotted up to my side and led the rest of the way, his only comment relating to my rather unique armor. We passed what I recognized as an Imperial Army flag – a left facing stylized dragon whose wings and tail formed a long diamond. The building behind the flag must have been a headquarters, of sorts. I thanked whatever gods were listening that the country had called a truce. We next passed a tavern, with a front patio full of spectators watching the carnage from a safe distance.

We stopped at a rather large, split-level house built on the slope of a hill. The entrance, illuminated by an oil lantern, was cut into the bottom of the slope, whereas the rest of the home was leveled out by a wood and rock platform. Looking across the dirt road to another house, I noted that the structure was similar.

Stenvar took the reins of both horses and led them to a makeshift stable. I recognized his Palomino, Honey, and figured the roan, dark-maned horse belonged to Selina. After we made sure Snowflake and Potato were without injury and could access the trough of water and pile of fresh hay, Stenvar led us inside the house that must have been his, or that of someone he knew.

Once Ingjard and I had shed our packs and cloaks and helped ourselves to some water and a waste bucket, we joined Stenvar and Selina in gazing out the southwest-facing windows. Even through the thick trees of the wooded town, the flames were very much apparent, and I still heard distant screams of elves. I whispered the word _laas_ , and focused on the settlement beyond the bridge.

The dragon was still there. Even if it had been silent, I would have known from both the giant red glow in the sky as well as its unmistakable presence. Many smaller, tall red figures, a mix of humans and elves, continued to scurry on the ground near the dragon. Others kept further back, watching and waiting. The strongest presence I felt, however, was Selina. Her werewolfness screamed for attention. I turned to her, and we locked eyes. I wondered if Stenvar knew.

“So,” Stenvar began, crossing his arms and facing me, “ya gonna tell me why you’re hidin’ inside and not bein’ the Dragonborn?”

“I’m not hiding, Stenvar,” I maintained. “At least, not from that dragon.”

“Those people are _dyin’_ out there!” He was angry, at least to some extent, and I wondered if he was actually concerned for the lives of Thalmor as opposed to the guards and soldiers that were trying to help them.

I had to explain. “That dragon is protecting me _from_ those people!”

Stenvar blinked, and softened. “What do y’ mean?”

“Exactly what I said. The dragon knows where I am. It knows _what_ I am. And it knows that those elves – Thalmor, I am guessing – mean to harm me. We had to take the horses off the road to avoid them. Are they Thalmor, Stenvar? South of the bridge?”

He scratched his elbow. “Well, yeah. The folks are callin’ it South Dragon Bridge. The Imperials let ‘em set up there, as a sort of post.”

“When?” Ingjard asked. “They were not here several years ago.”

“Sometime in th’ last year. Most people aren’t happy ‘bout it, but,” he shrugged, “there’s nothin’ to do.”

With a groan, I let myself fall into a large, welcoming, cushioned chair near the window. I rubbed the weariness out of my eyes. “The Thalmor are after me,” I revealed to Stenvar and Selina. Ingjard already knew.

“ _After_ you,” Stenvar repeated.

“There was this,” I waved a weak hand before me, “thing. A paper. The Thalmor had them for many people. Me, Torug – the orc Dragonborn – and others. You were on a list – ‘low priority’. Tonight, when Ingjard and I were riding north, I knew that people in the place before the bridge were elves, and wanted to harm me. That is when I sensed the dragon. It followed me. It attacked the elves. Though I did not see them, I figured them to be Thalmor.”

Stenvar stood still, eyes cast downward. “Shit.”

“How did you know the people in the _utstos_ were elves? That they meant you harm?” Selina asked.

I closed my eyes, resting. “I lived three months learning nothing but how to be a Dragonborn. That is how.”

“And got fancy new armor,” Stenvar added.

Ingjard chuckled, once. “She’s good with a sword, now, too” she attested. “At least, not hopeless.”

I smirked.

“It’s good to see you both again,” my bodyguard continued. “What has happened these last three months?”

“Well,” Stenvar began, “as you know, Elodie first took us to Winterhold from Whiterun.” He strode over to one of the benches set alongside his dining table and sat himself down. “We went the short way, avoidin’ towns. Most mages there refused to join ‘er n’ Brelyna. They picked up three, in the end – people you already know, they say. A kid named Darius – Elodie said he’s a dedicated healer and knows a lot of magic that controls the undead.”

“Darius. Yes,” I recalled, nodding. “He was a young novice when I was at the college.”

“He had a friend with ‘im,” Stenvar continued.

“More than a friend, I think, Stenvar,” Selina interjected, an amused smile crossing her face.

“Heh, right.” Stenvar grinned. “An orc named Sharash. Beast of a woman. She was livin’ in the town, not a student at the College but she still casts some magic. Claims to be a shaman. Anyway, her mace is far deadlier than ‘er magic. Told ‘er she should come along. Darius was pleased.”

“Sharash claimed that she was attacked by a necromancer and undead slaves,” Selina added. “She jumped at the chance to kill more undead.”

“Then there’s the two Khajiit fellows,” Stenvar related. “Fa’nir and eh….”

“J’zargo,” Selina helped.

My heart leapt a little. I greatly missed J’zargo. Though the Khajiit at the college had been rather exclusive and I did not get to know Fa’nir or their mutual lover Azijjan well, I had spent enough time with J’zargo to befriend him, somewhat.

“Did they not have another Khajiit with them?” I asked. “A woman, Azijjan?”

Stenvar shook his head. “Nope. Anyway, we then found Selina, Athis, and Njada in Whiterun. No one else was interested.”

“Amren wanted to come,” said the sister of Amren, a smirk betraying her stone expression, “but his wife would not let him.”

“And Jenassa and Brelyna are with Elodie?” I asked.

“They’re in Solitude, waitin’,” Stenvar replied.

“And what happened to Onmund and the mages who were going to Ormra, to Bromjunaar?”

Stenvar shrugged. “No idea. Maybe Elodie knows.”

“Are you hungry?” Selina asked as she walked into a separate room.

“Starving, thanks.” An eager Ingjard followed Selina, leaving me and Stenvar alone.

I eyed my friend. Something about this situation felt odd to me, but I couldn’t quite understand what.

“Is this house yours?” I asked him.

“Hm, yeah. Was my parent’s. I was rentin’ out to an older couple, but they died last winter, not a month apart. I decided to stay ‘ere a while, clean a bit. Haven’t decided yet if I want to rent or sell, or just keep it.”

“Were you born in Dragon Bridge?”

He smiled. “Yeah. My parents left Whiterun after they were married.”

Selina and Ingjard returned to the main room with a tray of bowls and half-loaves of bread. I joined the others in sitting at the dining table, and watched as Stenvar poured everyone some mead. Before Selina sat down next to Stenvar, she reached to her side and subtly put her arm around the sellsword’s waist. Once he was finished pouring mead, he returned the gesture, and smiled.

“Mm, Deb,” Stenvar said, standing again, “I have somethin’ for ya. Before I forget….” He held up a finger and darted to a bookshelf, grabbing what looked like a journal. He spoke as he walked back to the dining table. “It’s a book of songs that I’ve collected. The words, I mean. Mostly from the farmfolk. Old songs, like that one I sang for the two Stormcloaks.”

He handed me the journal, opened to a page on which was written recognizable lyrics from the dirge he had sung. Though the memory made me sad, I smiled. “Thank you, Stenvar. Truly.” I flipped to the front of the journal, to the first page of lyrics. “’The Dragonborn Comes’?” I asked, eyes still on the page.

“You haven’t heard that yet?” Ingjard asked. “Bards sing it all the time. They’ve been singing it… forever.”

“No, I have not heard it.” I skimmed the lyrics, understanding most. “It’s old?”

“I’ll sing it for ya, if ya like.” Stenvar grinned before ripping a chunk of bread off with his teeth. “Though,” he continued, still chewing, “tonight seems a bit… undeserved.” I glared at him as he swallowed. “A Dragonborn who flees from dragons.”

I grumbled. “That isn’t what—“

Stenvar was turning red with stifled laughter. “I’m just _brandich_ , sweetheart.”

Selina elbowed Stenvar, and we returned to our dinner in peace, without the accompaniment of song.

. . . . . .

The next day, the town was quiet. Smoke still billowed from the Thalmor settlement, but otherwise no commotion plagued the fresh morning air. Stenvar casually asked a guard if they had killed the dragon, and learned that they had not. The dragon had reportedly flown off shortly after I left the scene for Stenvar’s house, and did not return. Stenvar also learned that most of the Thalmor had died in the attack, as did two Imperial soldiers and one guard. No civilians or livestock were injured or killed. This was in contradiction to previous claims that dragons were destroying the lives of many by dilapidating towns and eating cattle. I had no doubt that some dragons did indeed attack people, I had seen it myself in Windhelm, after all, and had seen the ruins of Riverwood, but I was not surprised that not _all_ dragons behaved that way.

I recalled a conversation I had had with Paarthurnax, in which I mentioned that Viinturuth was Alduin’s minion. He suggested that many dragons followed Alduin and his ways blindly, while others, like Paarthurnax, simply wanted to live in peace. When I asked him why many people had come to believe that dragons were nothing more than a legend if they obviously still existed, Paarthurnax revealed that there are some remote mountains on which dragons still dwelled, knowing better than to disturb the lives of mortals, and knowing how to hide. He explained that the sudden arrival of more dragons was the result of Alduin resurrecting his brethren who had been killed by mortals thousands of years ago, but whose souls remained, as it had not been a Dragonborn who had killed them. Fortunately for mortals, Paarthurnax had said, not all dragons that Alduin raises from the dead readily obey his commands. As I witnessed the previous night, this was absolutely true.

Over breakfast, Stenvar had suggested that we head out for Meridia’s temple, which took less than a day on horseback to reach. While we were tacking our horses, my ears picked up what sounded like happy music coming from the inn. The tune sounded familiar. Very familiar. I finished cinching Snowflake’s saddle and turned toward the music, listening. Still straining to understand the words, I decided to pay the inn a visit.

Inside, I found the musician – a man, strumming a lute. He was of average height and skinny, having all the appearance of what Nords called _Harstenen_ , High-Rockers, sometimes referred to derogatively as _Mathirmer,_ or Man-mer, meaning part human and part elf. The man had short-cropped brown hair and a generous amount of scruff on his face. The inn was empty, save for him and a housekeeper, and three people sitting at a back table, conversing quietly.

Something about the lute-player’s song tugged at my memory. My stubborn nature wouldn’t let me leave until I figured out the mystery.

And then the musician began to sing again, having previously given his throat a break.

It took my brain a while to figure out what was happening. I likened the phenomenon to my previous experiences as a country-hopping archaeologist. Living in a foreign country for a time, hearing nothing but that foreign language, one expected to hear said language everywhere from TVs to radios to conversation. Once returned to America, it felt odd to hear English all around me, to see recognizable, descriptive license plates instead of the generic European ones. My brain was able to relax, to take a break from concentrating too hard on what people were saying. Yet it was even more jarring to hear English in those foreign countries, particularly coming from citizens of that country. Even then, it took my brain a moment to adjust to a heightened level of comfort. It was always the case with me, not being quite fluent in any other language other than the one with which I was raised.

Not any longer. My friends would claim I was perfectly fluent in Norren, despite having a limited vocabulary. The language of the Nords _was_ my language, now; I had no more need of English, aside from my own journals and playing “secret sweet talk” with Yrsarald. There were no English-speaking people on Nirn, and therefore I was allowed no respite from using the foreign language center of my brain. My mind had shifted to thinking in Norren, for the most part, which most would claim as the definition of fluency.

Hearing foreign words sung in this Dragon Bridge inn was, needless to say, confusing. It took longer than it should have to recognize the words that were formed by the musician’s mouth. I gawked at the lute-player, stunned, until some deep motor memory coerced my mouth and lungs to move along in sync with the musician.

“ _…’say… the world has come between us. Our lives have come between us. Still’….”_

I stopped singing, listening to the musician finish the sentence leading on to the chorus. I caught his eye as he continued, and began humming along, quietly as to not provide a dissonant distraction. Slowly, the musician stopped playing, easing out of the unfinished song created by a one-hit-wonder band with a forgettable name.

“ _Did you just sing along to that song?”_ a man’s voice called from close behind me.

I jumped and turned. The sound of the voice alerted my senses and my brain short-circuited. British. English. The man who spoke was British. An easterner. British. _British_.

“ _Zeik… ehhhg…._ ” _Shit. “_ Yes! I did. I know that song.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Shit.”

“Shit!” the British man echoed, suddenly ecstatic and clasping a hand to his mouth. His companions reacted similarly. I was in shock along with them all, brain continually attempting to process the unexpected.

“Oh my fuckin’ god, mate,” another British man exclaimed. “I don’t fuckin’ believe this.”

“You’re all British?” I asked them.

They laughed. “Ah-yep,” the musician answered. “Canadian?” he asked me.

“American.”

“Look at th’ armor she ‘as,” the tallest one of the bunch noted. Contrastingly, the four men were all wearing dirty, tattered fabric clothing, though certainly nothing Earth-made.

“Uh, yeah.” I ignored the comment about my armor, not wanting to get into a discussion about who, or what, I was. “How did you come here? Did you all, what, fall through some portal together?”

“We were drivin’ from Pompey to Colchester,” the musician answered, “middle o’ the day, when shit jus’ went black. Couldn’t see a damned thing. No crash, nothin’. Silence. Next, we all woke in a field in the middle o’ nowhere, no idea what’d happened.”

“We started walkin’,” the tall one said, “ended up ‘ere an’ been ‘ere since.”

“When was this?” I asked.

“About…,” the musician turned to the others. “What, six months?” The others agreed. “Yeah, six months ago. Been ‘ard, ‘ave to sing to eat.”

The shortest of the group chuckled. “And it’s a bit nipply ‘ere, i‘n’t it?” The others laughed.

“Is that what ‘appened to you?” the musician asked. “Woke up in the middle o’ nowhere?”

Staring blankly at the man, I gave a simple, “Yes, exactly,” and moved on. “Did you… by any chance… lose a playing card?” I reached into my smaller bag that was still hanging over my hip. Inside were my journals, various important belongings, and an Eight of Hearts. I slipped the card out from my bag and showed it to the men, who collectively gasped.

“Oh, fuck,” one exclaimed.

“You fuckin’ found it!?” another asked.

“Of course an Earth woman would see it, right?” said yet another.

“It was hard to miss,” I admitted.

“Ye didn’t ‘appen to find the Two of Clubs, though?” the tall one asked.

I shook my head. “No, sorry.”

The inn door slammed open, and a perturbed, armored Stenvar stomped one foot inside. “ _Hvas rith da’rs grahich, Deb!?”_ he asked in a spitting tone, and waved his arm toward him as he ordered me to follow.

I turned back to my fellow Earthlings, oddly feeling relief at having an excuse to leave, if only because I didn’t want to have to explain myself, or my armor, to them.

“I have to go,” I told the men. “I’m sorry. I’ll be back, though, I think. But, here….” I reached into my satchel and pulled out my coin purse, tossing it to one of them. “It isn’t much, but it’s something. Get yourselves to a city in the southeast, called _Riften_. I hear there’s always work, there, and it’s supposed to be warmer.”

“ _Deb!_ ” Stenvar shouted again.

“ _Zeik eg ittig!”_ I shouted in reply over my shoulder, and then smiled as graciously as possible to the four men. “My name is Deborah. I’m living in a city in the northeast, called _Vend-Hjalm_. If you ever need anything—“

“ _Vler’r ventich, Deb….”_

 _“Ja, ja, Stenvar!”_ I shouted without turning. “Deborah. _Vend-Hjalm_. Any letter you send will find me.” I ripped out a piece of paper from a fresh journal page, inked my quill as quickly as possible, and wrote down my name and Windhelm for them in the Norren way. “I have to go. Good luck.”

I smiled at the British men and scurried out the inn door, pacifying my impatient sellsword friend.

“What in Oblivion were you doin’?” he asked me as we walked toward the horses, which had since been made ready for departure. “You just walked off.”

“They are from my world, Stenvar,” I answered, quietly.

He stopped walking. “Your world?”

I turned to him and nodded. “My world. All four men. _My…_ _world_ ….” Not waiting for a response, I headed towards an eager, whinnying Snowflake.

Thankfully, Stenvar made no further comment about my revelation about the Earthlings in the inn. Selina, I assumed, did not know that I was not a Nord, and I did not feel like explaining myself to her today. Instead, the four of us mounted our horses and set them on an easy gait north. Once we passed the town limits, Stenvar began to hum a tune, and soon belted out in full song.

“ _Ur hulta, ur hulta pirf’ hjarta se dren_

_Zeik loga, zeik loga_

_Dov’faea itta_

_Med Thu’um kodig megin se thorza Nor bahs_

_Trua, trua, Dov’faea itta_

_Er enda par vonul se hvera paalen_

_Ersten, ersten, Dov’faea itta_

_Par ‘vula litharta_

_ath tjothlov an fax’_

_da skul ekjen, Dov’faea itta_

_Er raeda se dovahn_

_Bofla unt ha sin—”_

“Hey!” I shouted at Stenvar. “I do not hide under my damn bed.”

The old sellsword laughed himself silly atop his horse, and the others chuckled.

“Did you make new words to that old song, just now?” I asked him.

My friend, still in hysterics at his own joke, nodded.

“Ass,” I muttered under my breath, though Stenvar still heard the comment, sending him deeper into his laughing fit.

. . . . . .

From downhill, we saw a gentle plume of campfire smoke rising from the dense pines, announcing the position of our friends. What looked like ancient Nord ruins covered a large expanse of the area below the smoke, and I wondered if the ruins were part of Meridia’s temple. As we climbed, a familiar figure, set atop a square structure, came into view: Meridia. Giant and winged, the statue was exactly what I had seen in my visions of the temple, and what Wuunferth had shown me in one of his books. My eyes never left the angelic deity, relying on Snowflake to follow Stenvar’s lead up the dirt path.

I had often wondered what the consequences were of Meridia choosing a Champion who had to train before she could be effective, but I had to trust that a goddess, of all things, knew what she was doing. At the mage college I trained heavily in Restoration magic, which covered healing as well as anti-undead spells. At High Hrothgar, I mastered eleven Shouts, and learned several more partially. I also perfected a ward orb spell, and trained as a battlemage, sword wielded in my right hand and magic in my left. I was ready.

I had to be ready.

Despite my preparations, I dreaded what we would find inside the corrupt temple. Recalling the visions Meridia had sent me, and the recent nightmare I was forced to experience, I knew to expect dead bodies of soldiers, and possibly even ghosts. This Malkoran necromancer was using Meridia’s own artifact, whatever that was, to enhance his powers. Though Stenvar claimed we would have thirteen people in total at the temple – six mages, six warriors, and one self-professed shaman – I wondered if that would be enough.

It had to be enough.

“There it is,” Stenvar announced, as if any of us held any doubt.

We rounded a steep curve where stone steps had been inlaid in the earth. Standing and lintel stones, reminiscent of Stonehenge, lined the path’s outer border. One set of stones formed an arch, which when passed under led to the temple grounds behind the platform. Immediately we were met by a tightly-packed camp of half a dozen tents and just as many people. A large campfire burned at the camp’s center, and a friendly face dumped chopped wood beyond its stone ring.

J’zargo was no longer wearing a mage’s robe, but instead shimmering, formidable black metal armor. It was enchanted, jagged, and plated for ease of movement. Unlike my armor, his flared out into a skirt below the waist, giving way for his tail. A short, black sword hung sheathed at his left hip, and plated gauntlets protected his feline hands and wrists. Unlike Fa’nir, who stood not far away from his friend, J’zargo was armed neck to toe. Fa’nir wore the same mage’s robe I had always seen him in. He wore no glove or boot, just shin and wrist wraps, relying on his claws for melee combat, and magic for bodily defense.

I smiled at the two Khajiit men before I dismounted. Ingjard took Snowflake’s reins and led her and Potato to a nearby tree. The closer I walked to J’zargo and Fa’nir, the more features I noticed. J’zargo had recently obtained a wound on the right side of his muzzle, cutting through the area from which whiskers grew. He had also gained weight, and was now just as big as his strong friend. Fa’nir, who as far as Khajiit went I always thought to be objectively attractive, obtained more piercings for his ears, now boasting five silver rings on each.

J’zargo was the first to reach out his arm to me in greeting, offering me a toothy smile as well. Fa’nir followed, but without the smile. His unretracted claws grazed my wrist, slightly.

“I’m so glad to see you two,” I said to them, truthfully. “Thank you for being here; I’m sure we need all of the help we can get.” I looked around the camp. “Is Azijjan not here?” I thought I heard a low growl rumble in Fa’nir’s throat, and the Khajiit walked away from us, outside the tent circle.

“Azijjan is in Riften,” J’zargo explained while he watched his friend leave. “Like you, she became pregnant, and had to leave. She has family in the southern city. J’zargo thinks she will not return to the College. This is unfortunate.”

“Is Fa’nir alright?”

“He is upset that Azijjan left, and that the kitten she carries is not his.”

“Oh….”

J’zargo’s left whiskers twitched up; he was smirking. “It is no longer a secret that J’zargo and Fa’nir and Azijjan are together. But J’zargo is still pleased that it is his kitten inside of Azijjan. Fa’nir may desire his own kittens with Azijjan or other Khajiit, but for now, he stays with J’zargo. He will help you and Elodie, until the Khajiit are no longer necessary and may return to the College.”

“Deborah!” A familiar voice called from behind J’zargo, who turned toward the woman as well.

Elodie strutted towards me, a serious, neutral expression firm on her face. She was draped in blood-red and gold flowing armor that looked like something out of a fantasy movie. If I had not previously found her attractive, today would have been the day. The red skirts flowing from her waist were tucked under gilded metal thigh guards. Her breastplate, bracers, and pauldrons were made of red leather and golden metal swirls. Her lace-up boots rose to her thighs, covering red leather leggings. A golden choker, accented by rubies and emeralds, completed the ensemble, and matched her customary red lipstick.

Behind Elodie walked a short and thin, dark-haired man with striking blue eyes, dressed entirely in black leather. Next to him was a large, bulky female orc wearing dark green armor that failed to cover her arms or thighs completely. The armor appeared to be stained studded leather that splayed out at the waist into panels, forming a skirt. I barely recognized Darius, who had since grown a shade of a goatee and shed his mage’s robe. The orc, I assumed, was his lady-friend Sharash. Darius was carrying a wooden staff topped by what looked like soul gem shards. Sharash wielded a black, spiked mace, which for now hung at an angle at her right side. The closer the orc came, the clearer I saw her skin markings. She did not have tattoos, but rather had undergone extensive scarification that spanned her face, chest, and arms. Her head was shaved, her ears carried multiple earrings, and pierced through her septum was a small circle of black metal.

Still not smiling, Elodie stood tall before me. “It seems I was correct about the timing,” she said.

“Yes. Meridia sent me a dream, and I knew it was time.” At that moment, Ingjard stepped up to my side, with Stenvar, Selina, and a Nord woman and Dunmer man behind her. The Nord and Dunmer, I assumed, were the Companions Njada and Athis. Other than Fa’nir, who had wandered off, we were only missing two. I clasped the arms of both Companions, who confirmed their identities.

Njada Stonearm and Athis both wielded a sword and shield. Njada, a Nord, had a very strong presence, possibly due to her heavy use of black eye makeup and blood-red warpaint streaked across her cheeks. Athis, a Dunmer, demanded no less attention, with caked white warpaint decorating his face, accented by his bright red eyes.

Introductions finished, I turned back to Elodie. “Where are Jenassa and Brelyna?”

“They will arrive from Solitude before nightfall, with supplies,” she answered.

“Good,” I heard Stenvar say. “Saves me a trip.”

“Then you have found what I needed in Dragon Bridge?” Elodie asked Stenvar.

“They’re still in the saddlebags. Just lemme know where ya want ‘em.”

Elodie nodded at Stenvar and walked towards him. As she passed me, she offered my shoulder a light, welcoming touch.

“Deb, come on,” Darius called, approaching me. “You have to see the statue.”

“I see it, Darius. I should rather set up my tent.”

“Go on, Dragonborn,” Ingjard encouraged in a lofty tone, a smirk crossing her face. “Leave the tent to me.”

Darius grinned, and opened his arms in welcome as I strode up to him. Sharash remained silent, her demeanor more like a guard than anything else.

As we ascended the solid stone steps that led to Meridia’s statue, Darius made our introductions. “Deb, this is my wife, Sharash. Sharash, Deborah. Child of Akatosh, and you know the rest.”

“An honor,” Sharash said to me, nodding once.

“We met outside of Riften while I was traveling back to the College after visiting my family,” Darius continued. “She and her fellow hunters were in trouble. There was this necromancer controlling the risen dead – it was awful. I watched from a distance, at first, not sure what was happening. Sharash held her own until her friends died, and rose again to fight her alongside skeletons and the bodies of bandits, or something. I thank Akatosh and Arkay every day that I focused my education on Restoration magic. I feel it is my destiny, like you, Deb, to fight the undead.”

“Darius is very skilled in magic that harms the risen,” Sharash concurred. Her speech was rough in rhythm, but her voice was smooth and deep. “I might have died, had he not been there that day.”

“I healed her wounds there in the forest before she took me to her camp, not far from the Riften stables. We then returned to the city to repair her armor and, well….” Darius grinned, and his cheeks and neck flushed a dark pink.

Sharash gave Darius’s rear a playful smack, and she chuckled.

I couldn’t help but grin. “Ah, well….” I lifted my satchel from my shoulder and lowered it to the stone platform on which the statue of Meridia stood. “This necromancer – did you kill him, her?”

“Him, and yes,” Sharash answered. “Old man, human. We did not wait to ask questions; the dead kept rising.”

“He never mentioned anyone called Malkoran or The Summoner, did he?” I asked the two.

Darius shook his head. “No. He didn’t say much, in the end, aside from chants and spells.”

“Hmph.” I turned my head from Darius to lift my gaze high, greeting Meridia’s solemn face with my own. Her hands were raised above her hooded crown. Her wings lifted well above her hands, and braced the statue on the platform along with the goddess’s robes and feet. The statue was larger than I had previously thought; even the towering Sharash stood shorter than the statue’s knee.

At Meridia’s feet was placed a chest-high statue of priests, arms outstretched toward each other’s and palms up, forming a circle. The base of the smaller statue was round without a center, and I wondered what had once been placed there. Leaning forward, I peered down the opening within the priests’ arms and saw nothing. A few leaves and twigs had gathered at the statue’s base, and I felt the urge to poke at what I thought was an actual hole not just in the base of the small statue, but in the platform itself. When the tip of the twig met no resistance, my suspicion was confirmed.

“What goes in there, I wonder?” I asked myself.

“Don’t you carry Meridia’s Light?” Darius asked.

I looked to him, wondering how he knew about the cut rock that I indeed carried. “Yes, why?”

“’A single candle can banish the darkness of the entire Void’,” Darius said. I recognized those words. “As a student of Restoration magic, I studied anything I could find regarding the undead, and this included Meridia, as well as Arkay. Have you not seen sketches of this statue before?”

“Sketches?” I repeated. “Yes.” Wuunferth had shown me the sketch of this statue; I had recognized it immediately. What I had forgotten from the sketch was the light that had shown between Meridia’s upstretched hands, a light that was absent from the real statue. “Meridia’s Light,” I realized. “But, how? How….” I followed the midline of the statue from head to toe, ending at the statue of priests with open arms. What worried me was the hole at the base of the small statue – the cut rock, which fit in the palm of my hand, would easily fall through. Still, I had to try.

I walked over to my satchel and retrieved the cut rock. I had since placed in it a cloth bag, padded on the inside with suede. Reaching in, even through my leather gloves I could feel the stone humming with energy, and it was already glowing white before clearing its container. With nervous steps I walked with the stone over to the small statue. I half-expected Meridia to speak to me through the stone, show me visions or take my consciousness away, but none of that happened. As I had been for months now, I was on my own.  I held the rock over the small statue, over the opening between the priests’ arms, cringing as I waited for something to happen. When the rock remained where it was, glowing and vibrating in my hand, I knew what I had to do. I closed my eyes, and dropped the rock.

A rush of energy flowed through me, and I swooned. Drowning out the birdsong, a woman began to sing. I was floating. I was air. White nothingness surrounded me, and all I knew was the vastness of possibility. The ethereal voice drew nearer, its words unintelligible. The tune was pleasant, comforting. I felt at ease.

The song continued, and a white light appeared before me. The light slowly elongated, eventually taking on the form of a spectral woman with wings twice as long as her body was tall.

“Champion,” Meridia crooned over the singing voice. “The time has come. Align the stones, set free the souls of the corrupted, and end Malkoran’s cruel experiments. Cleanse my temple, so that mortals may worship me once again.”

The goddess condensed into a sphere of light, and the song on the wind faded with her.

When I opened my eyes, I was still standing before Meridia’s statue, arm outstretched over the stone priests, hand open as it had been when I had dropped the cut rock. Rising out of the opening in the base of the smaller statue was a strong beam of white light, interrupted faintly by my hand. I pulled away from the beam, and saw that my hand and fingers sparkled and tingled with delicate electricity. My gaze followed the beam up, focusing just above Meridia’s head. The cut rock had found its home, hovering between the goddess’s open hands. Its luminescence had increased, and the beam continued up towards the sky, a beacon surely visible from far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, Meridia and her temple of doom.  
> -  
> Utstos - Outpost  
> Brandich - Sweetheart  
> Hartene - Breton  
> Mathirmer - man-mer  
> Hvas rith da’rs grahich - what the fuck are you doin'  
> Zeik eg ittig - I am coming  
> Vend-Hjalm - Windhelm  
> Vler’r ventich - The others are waitin'  
> -  
> "The Dragonborn Comes" was fully translated into Norren  
> with an added partial verse:  
> Er raeda se dovahn / Bofla unt ha sin - She is afraid of dragons, hides under her bed


	36. The Ruins of Kilkreath

“Kilkreath,” I repeated after Darius. “Sounds like Falkreath.”

Darius nodded. “Yep, it was the same ancient peoples who named those places. Karth River: Markarth, Karthwasten…. Morthal too, I think.”

“All towns that sound different from the others,” I noticed. “ _Vend-Hjalm. Hvit-Lap. Riften._ These are all… Nord-like names.”

“The Reachmen named the not-Nord places,” was all the young man said.

After ogling the light display that happened once I dropped Meridia's Light into place, Darius and Sharash walked me toward a stone wall uphill just behind the temple. A word wall. A _qethsegol_. Paarthurnax either did not know or would not tell me why the stones were called such. I did know that rocks in general were considered the bones of the earth at least poetically by people in my world, but these were rocks with eulogies and memorials on them. I settled on the assumption that ' _qethsegol_ ' was merely the word ancient Nords, and possibly dragons themselves, used to mean 'tombstone' or 'memorial'. After all, nothing weathered time like stone, especially archaeologically. Memories made permanent, etched in stone on the bones of the earth.

Standing in front of the word wall, I ran my fingertips over the lengthy message, reading aloud slowly, practicing my _Dovahzul_.

“ _Qethsegol vahrukiv paaz kulaas yrsa wo ensosin pa do taazokaan voth ek dun arkh brii.”_

Unfortunately, I didn't understand much of the message, but nevertheless wrote down the words in my journal. Though I doubted the word meant the same in the dragon tongue, ' _yrsa_ ' stood out to me. I followed the etchings with my fingertips over and over, wishing the vertical lines and dots were Yrsarald's warm flesh, not shade-chilled stone.

“Their language was rough,” Sharash remarked, turning to me. “Do you understand these words?”

“Some. 'Tomb-stone', 'remembers', 'who', 'all of Tamriel with', 'and beauty'. I think one of the words is the name of a woman.”

“You learned to read 'dragon' in only three months?” Darius asked, unbelieving.

I turned to him and lifted my shoulders briefly in a shallow shrug. “Only some words, Darius. And I would not doubt that Kyne is helping me, again.” I returned my gaze to the stone. “And, anyway, some of the words are similar. _Wo: Hvan. Ar_ _h_ _k brii_ – exactly the same.”

Following the sentence, I stopped at the word for 'who' and considered the possible sentence structure. _Dovahzul_ wasn't dissimilar to Norren, which wasn't dissimilar to English. That which. Someone who.

“Yrsa,” I breathed, voice breaking. “I think the woman's name was Yrsa.” My face stiffened and my hand fell to my side. I fondled the ring my partner had given me, managing a smile when I recalled the engraving inside. The moment ended quickly when determination set in.

“Let us finish this,” I muttered, and turned back to camp.

  


At dusk, Jenassa and Brelyna returned from Solitude with supplies of bandages, potions, and various basic supplies such as travel food and flasks of water. Brelyna and I greeted one another with an enduring hug. As we embraced, I whispered to her, “You know too much, friend, but thank you.”

The woman giggled, and shushed me. I saw Jenassa try to hide a smirk.

Njada and Athis brought to camp two wild goats and began roasting and smoking the meat immediately. Once dinner was ready, mead, provided by Stenvar, was passed around liberally. I soon learned that the goat roasts had been basted in the liquid as well.

As everyone dined and relaxed, Stenvar serenaded us with songs of varying heroic acts, thankfully excluding songs about any Dragonborn. Fa'nir and J'zargo sat apart from the rest of us, but still listened to the goings-on. Selina and Jenassa counted arrow inventory and coated the tips with poison. Sharash used the same substance on her mace. Ingjard, Njada, and Athis sharpened their swords with a portable whetstone. Elodie was absent, in her tent, enchanting items with the soulgems Stenvar had brought her. Darius kept to himself, meditating near the statue of Meridia.

Later, as everyone settled in for the night, I was uneasy about sleeping outside the temple with a maleficent necromancer just within, but my friends promised me that the hillside had remained peaceful since they had been camped there. Jenassa recommended that I and the other mages sleep under the stars, outside of our tents, in order to absorb as much starlight as possible and in that sense 'recharge' our magical stores, but Elodie said this was not necessary. I was relieved.

Despite it all, even with friends patrolling the camp in shifts throughout the night, I did not sleep. I lay on my back, head near the open tent flap, gazing up at the night sky, letting the steady rumble of Ingjard's snores drown out my thoughts of Yrsarald.

. . . . . .

The very moment the temple door was pushed open, the odor of rot and foulness hit my nose, and I wretched. I wasn't alone. The summoning dream Meridia had sent me did not lie. I knew what awaited us in this temple, and I was _not_ happy about it.

I heard Stenvar grumble. Nevertheless he pushed forward, wanting to be at the lead. My bodyguard was beside me, slightly in front, and the rest of our group trailed, closely packed. Unlike the fortress we visited previously, we made no plan to be silent. Hand signals were used, but there were too many of us not to communicate with speech.

The temple was dark. At least at the entrance and just beyond, nothing could be seen, and no occupation was evident. None of us carried torches, though, as Brelyna kept the way lit with a generous amount of Magelight. Each of us mages knew the simple spell, and would cast it as necessary.

Accompanying the fetidness was a blanket of black, smog-like clouds, hovering a small distance above the stone temple floor. The substance dispersed when interrupted as any smoke or gas would, but I half-expected it to attack us. I sighed out of relief when it didn't.

Adjusted to the smell, Stenvar, Ingjard, and I crept forward. Elodie, Brelyna, the Companions, and Sharash were all seemingly unaffected by the stench of the entranceway to the temple. J'zargo and Fa'nir suffered the most, no doubt having a keener sense of smell than the rest of us. They hung back a moment as the rest of us advanced, slowly.

The mages were interspersed amongst the warriors with Selina and Jenassa in the center of our mob. Each of us had a role, and a partner to protect or be protected by. Elodie was in charge of the mages, and Stenvar was in charge of the warriors. Elodie had spent the evening re-enchanting their weapons with various spells, but mainly those that harm the undead.

Us mages discussed the night before our varying talents and what spells we knew best. Elodie concentrated on Conjuration, particularly with controlling the dead and undead; her element was frost. Brelyna concentrated on Alteration magic but knew the basics of many different spells; her element was fire. Darius concentrated fully on Restoration magic, which included wards against the undead; he chose to heal rather than destroy. J'zargo was what they called an elemental mage, able to cast spells of fire, lighting, and frost; he claimed to know a spell that could cause chaos amongst our enemies. Fa'nir concentrated on Illusion spells, and claimed the ability to make any of us nearly undetectable; his element was fire, but he rarely casted destructive spells.

Most mages knew detection spells, but it was up to me to tell the others what to expect further inside the temple. With my new 'dragon sense', as I liked to think of it, the utterance of one phrase could tell me everything about beings around me – how many, what they were, and if they were hostile. More importantly, using this Shout, unlike using magic, did not tire me at all. I was now the group's scout.

Like the mages, the warriors knew their roles, too. Stenvar was our only two-handed warrior, but was as good as any tank; he was our first line of offense as well as defense. He still wielded the sword given to him by the Jarl of Winterhold. Though Ingjard would have loved to join him and wallop enemies with her warhammer she kept tied to her horse, her duty was to remain at my side, and she was glad to be there.

Jenassa and Selina both carried their bows, but Jenassa, for now, opted to wield two elven-style short swords. Each of them was enchanted, one of them with fire, and the other with magic used to frighten the undead, the same spell as Stenvar's sword held. Athis too was an archer, but left his bow behind, joining Njada and Ingjard in carrying a sword and shield. The two Companions took it upon themselves to protect Darius above all, but would defend anyone else if the need arose. Their shields had already been enchanted with magic-suppression, a reminder to me that, for whatever reason, the Companions did not care for magic, nor mages. Thankfully, they cared for necromancers even less.

Finally, Sharash was our battlemage, wielding her mace in her left hand and casting various simple spells from her right. She did not use any ward spells, she had mentioned, but rather preferred to complement smashing things with lighting them on fire.

I had no idea what we would be met with in the temple. At least one necromancer, sure, but beyond that my 'dragon sense' told me nothing, and detection magic showed nothing. The night before, I lay awake scanning the area, testing myself in naming the location and identity of each person around me, and trying to feel for Malkoran within the underground temple. I felt the presence of my party members, and small animals and insects around us, but nothing emanated from the temple. This worried me.

Once inside, I breathed the three words that revealed life and so much more. Instead of information, all I felt was death. Not un-death, or the presence of the undead, just a heavy, oppressive sense of doom. I decided to test the Shout and detection magic intermittently.

We moved through the stone tunnel with caution, using our best judgment on where to proceed. I was surprised that Stenvar left alone the varying funerary urns I spotted, but I figured he'd just loot them later on our way back out.

Our way back out. _We will come back out_.

Unexpectedly, and ending as quickly as it had happened, Elodie grasped my right hand.

And then I stepped on something crunchy, and large. I yelped, not in pain but in fright, and took a step back. I cast a strong Candlelight spell above us, and forced myself to look down. _Just l_ _ike stepping on a spider_ , I lied to myself. _A really big spider_.

The sound of disgust that I made was matched by that of several others. Ingjard grasped at my elbow, whether in support given or needed I wasn't sure. Darius mumbled what sounded like a prayer. Everyone there knew what to expect inside, what I had seen in my visions and dream, but knowing that one might see dead bodies was not the same as stepping on one.

The whithered body of a Stormcloak soldier lay strewn across the path. The cloth aspect of her armor was in tatters. Her hair was matted. Her skin was rotted and dried. She had begun to decay, somewhat, but the coolness of the cave-like temple slowed the process, perhaps stalling it indefinitely, preserving what remained.

Stenvar muttered some curses under his breath before inhaling and puffing out his cheeks. He bent down, clutched the corpse by the underarms, and half-carried, half dragged the fallen soldier to the side of the corridor.

“We'll give ya a funeral fire on our way back, sweetheart,” I heard him say. “All of you.”

We passed by several more dead and rotted soldiers, Imperials and Stormcloaks alike. I saw a dead dog, pushed to the side, and knew it to be the dog I had learned of in my visions when I first touched Meridia's Light. Its master was one of these Imperial men.

Not much further down, Stenvar pushed on a wood, iron-reinforced door that did not move. “It's locked,” he muttered before stepping back and nodding to Brelyna.

My elven friend nodded back at the sellsword. She reached out her right hand to the door's lock. A green light flashed between palm and lock, and she stepped back. Stenvar pushed with a tentative hand, and the door creaked open.

Brilliant.

“I am very glad we're not smashing doors open,” I admitted aloud.

Stenvar turned to me, a calmness about him. He gave one look to Jenassa, who nodded in some unspoken understanding. She began to walk about the corridor, searching for something. Brelyna shadowed her, casting Magelight in various places.

I whispered to Ingjard. “Do you know what she searches for?”

“Traps, I think.” Ingjard stood on her toes and peered ahead of Stenvar. “There is a _spak_ in that room; I guess there is some sort of trap or... I don't know. I'm not an expert on these types of places.”

“Stenvar is,” I recalled. “Jenassa too, I think.” The pair of them had been exploring ruins together for at least ten years.

With a flick to the side of Jenassa's head, Stenvar wasted no more time, and pushed the lever. I could hear a mechanism somewhere nearby move and click into place, and I supposed something, perhaps a passageway, was unlocked.

“Here,” I heard J'zargo whisper. He sent a burst of Magelight down the newly-opened corridor. “A chest,” he announced, but held back.

Jenassa pushed to the front of us again, examining the place for more traps. She returned, and stared beyond us, slightly to her right.

“What?” Stenvar asked.

Jenassa carried herself in a manner that indicated clear annoyance; her near-perpetual state, actually. She pointed toward the direction she was looking, and explained, “The corridor continues here.” She walked past Stenvar and stood in the shadow of what we had all previously thought was a wall. Brelyna sent another ball of Magelight down the way, illuminating nothing but more stone that curved to the right.

Only then did I see the pile of five bodies to our right, near a decrepit, ancient bench and shelf. The smell was strong, here, and I gagged yet again.

Casting a stronger Magelight spell over the area, Brelyna examined the corpses. “They look... crushed. And their armor is somewhat blackened.”

“Burnt?” Darius asked.

“Mmaybe....” Brelyna wasn't sure, and neither was I. Yes, the metal of the Imperial's armor looked charred, but the rest of the body, armor, and cloth was not burnt at all. Brelyna continued. “I would say a fireball or similar magic could do this, but the cloth is undamaged. The armor is crushed here in the middle. No. It was not fire that did this; I don't know what spell could.”

“Dark magic,” Darius proposed, looking toward Elodie for some reason.

Ahead, the path split to the left and right, both sides leading to the same cavernous hall. Several people went each way, carefully, after Jenassa and Stenvar scanned both for traps. At the center of the hall stood a tarnished metal pedestal. Settled within it was a rock, illuminated by a beam of white light shot down at an angle from above.

“ _Wow_ ,” I breathed, slipping into English.

The light was no doubt generated by Meridia's magic and originated from the pedestal in front of her statue outside. I approached the pedestal, cautious, and examined its setting. The contraption was obviously the focus of the hall, which boasted wide, round stone columns and other similar, ancient-Nord features like I had seen in Saarthal.

The rock before me was glowing, sunken into the top of the pedestal center, and was faceted just like the rock I had carried for months.

 _Touch it_ , my own voice spoke to me.

Looking to my right to Ingjard, I gulped, but did not wait for encouragement. I turned back to the pedestal, reached out my hand, and touched the rock.

Nothing happened.

“Hmm.” Again, I reached out, this time my hand hovering. I slowly lowered my palm until my flesh was cooled by the angled stone surface. The weight of my hand pushed down more than I had intended, and something inside the pedestal clicked.

A pair of molded hands, pushed up from the center of the pedestal, cupped the glowing rock and held it out like an offering. A beam of the same white light shot out from this cut rock, aimed diagonally upwards at a right angle to the first beam. The receiver of this new signal was yet another faceted stone of the same size, this time embedded in the mouth of a large stylized hawk motif, one of the common features of these types of ruins, I realized. Mechanisms around us whirred, rattled, popped, and snapped into place, and ahead of us a door opened.

What had Meridia said to me? _Align the stones_. I understood, now. Passage through her temple was only possible by someone, perhaps only Meridia's Champion, activating these stones, letting her light pass through the temple as a sort of key. Malkoran had apparently been able to open the way himself, using dark magic, closing the path behind him.

“Come on,” I said to everyone, marching forth toward an opened doorway underneath the third lit stone.

More bodies, at least ten, some decayed earlier than others judging by the amount of exposed bones, impeded easy passage to the door. We stepped gingerly, avoiding stepping on the poor souls. Tip-toe, tip-toe. Long-step. Find a path. Toe, heel. Toe... heel.

I froze, straddled over the overturned body of an Imperial, when realization hit me – this was my dream. I looked up, looked ahead, looked behind, because I _knew_....

“Be ready,” I ordered calmly. I didn't want to yell in this cavern, not when I knew something, _something_ was waiting for us just beyond, but the warning needed to happen.

I hissed the words “ _l_ _aas yah nir”_ and finished my way across the bodies, falling to my knees after tripping over a Nord's blue cloak. Ingjard was quick to my side, futilely attempting to help me stand.

Paralyzed by sensation, I knelt there, knowing. The same sense of foreboding, of doom personified, had grown stronger. Palpable. I could smell it. The rot and decay scattered across this stone-slab, mossy floor was nothing compared to the pure wickedness that awaited us. I could not count how many creatures were beyond that doorway because that which awaited us was numberless. One evil, unified by magic, controlled by one man and a goddess's artifact, knew of our presence.

It was an ambush.

“It knows we're here,” I managed to say, finally standing.

“It? What 'it'?” Fa'nir asked.

I forgot their word for evil. I forgot their words for wicked, corrupted, dangerous. As a precaution, and as a signal to others, I cast a simple ward spell in front of me, and advanced.

Stenvar trotted up ahead of me, soon joined by Ingjard and her shield. I wanted to tell them that this was a mistake, that they should let me tread first, but I knew they would protest. Stenvar could take a blow, even a magical one, and he knew how to recognize traps. Ingjard would simply refuse on all grounds.

Vines and cobwebs greeted us. A set of steps led us further down into the earth. Mushrooms, ferns and grasses all managed to grow within this place along with the moss, a bright contrast to the death that awaited us behind another opened doorway.

I sensed them before they revealed themselves. Their eyes were what I saw first, red embers set deep into char-black, smoky skulls. I sent a large orb of Magelight ahead of us.

One, two, many. They manifested from the black smoke that had greeted us from moment one. They wielded metal weapons. They were armored. They bashed sword to shield, waiting. They hovered above the stone, legless. They were shades, specters, ghosts, the spirits of these fallen soldiers corrupted by Malkoran to do his bidding.

Terror gripped at my throat. I felt the urge to grip a sword, but had none. Instead, I readied lightning magic in my right hand, and continued to maintain a ward with my left.

“Ready!” Elodie shouted, and echoes of metallic swooshing and magical sounds bounced across the stone.

More specters formed, each of them armed, each of them growling. Another pedestal, illuminated by Meridia's beam, stood in contrast behind the dark specters. The Magelight illuminated hints of the surrounding features: carved stone columns, benches, an altar. This was an assembly hall. A shiver ran up my spine.

The stone beneath us shuddered before the sound reached my ears. A roaring shriek, its volume multiplied exponentially by the many creatures before us, signaled the undead army's attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I had to end with a cliffhanger, the chapter was simply getting too lengthy. Hopefully the next bit won't take too long to finish since it was half-written ages ago and I just have to, oh you know, write the action part now. Simple..... cough.  
> -  
> Vend-Hjalm. Hvit-Lap. Riften. - Wind-Helm. White-Run. Rifts.  
> Hvan - who  
> Spak - lever  
> -  
> qethsegol – word wall  
> Dovahzul – dragon speak  
> “Qethsegol vahrukiv paaz kulaas yrsa wo ensosin pa do taazokaan voth ek dun arkh brii.” - (This) stone commemorates (the) fair Princess Yrsa who bewitched all of Tamriel with her grace and beauty.


	37. Dawnbreaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's amazing how much writing someone can get done while sitting in an airport for 8 hours without internet access. (I apologize for any typos or errors in this chapter. I wrote tired and edited, twice, tired.)
> 
> Many thanks to those of you who are still hanging on to this wild ride. The next few chapters are all mostly written, so updates for now will be relatively quick. Lots of answers. Lots of connections. Lots of death. And undeath. Etc.
> 
> I hate narrating game quests, so hopefully this is different/exciting/whatever enough not to bore anyone. If you do get bored, at least read the ending. Trust me. Totally off-script.
> 
> Mild slishityslash violence within.

 

As Stenvar, Ingjard, myself and others defended against the incoming attack, Darius cast a spell, calling in a language that sounded similar to the few elvish words I knew. The incantation sent light in all directions, passing through my chest and stretching onward, forming a circle. The black shade warriors crashed into the light as if it were a wall, stopped not an arm's length from where I stood. I felt the chill of death upon my face as the specter of an Imperial soldier shrieked directly at me, banging her steel shield against the forcefield. I stepped back and turned, taking in the sight of Darius. The young man had both arms outstretched downward, and his chin was lifted high. I did not know the spell he had cast, but I knew it was Restoration magic, and that it was a type of all-encompassing ward that barred entry to the undead.

I needed to learn that spell.

The others figured out what had happened just as I had. Stenvar lunged forward with his greatsword, turning two specters into puffs of black smoke, their dark, tangible arms and armor evaporating along with their bodies. Ingjard, Athis, and Njada did the same, while the rest of us hung back, using magic and arrows from a distance.

To my left, J'zargo cast two different spells at once, a red and blue glow respectively. Curious, I waited to witness their effects. Upon being hit by the magic, three shades squealed, and turned from us. One of them began to attack its neighbor, and the other two simply fled. I shot forth lightning magic at the creatures and watched in delight as two of them disappeared.

I spotted Jenassa and Sharash at my right, skirting the scene; they must have intended to attack the undead warriors from behind. Wanting to join them, I tested the first word of a Shout that would speed up my flight.

 _Wuld_. Best translated as 'tornado', or simply 'fast wind'. I only needed to mutter the word and I was at once by Jenassa's side, startling her and Sharash. The movement attracted attention, unfortunately, and the specters spotted us. Feeling foolish, I attempted to correct my mistake.

A Shout I had learned at High Hrothgar but not used on anything was meant to confuse one's enemies, just as J'zargo had done with a spell. I gave myself only a few seconds to meditate upon the words.  _Faas ru maar. Faas ru maar._ Fear, run, terror.

Fitting.

I screamed the dragon words, willing all my energy into the Shout. A red shimmer floated forth, settling upon several shades. Their spectral bodies doubled back, hit by the force of the words, and their attack was paused momentarily before they began to flee. Jenassa and Sharash fell upon the confused creatures, piercing their chests and severing their ghostly heads. The two women did not stop. One specter after another fell to the elf and orc. From my left, more red magic shed upon the shades, and they again halted before attacking one another as well as my companions.

As lightning shot from my palms, vaporizing another creature, I realized that J'zargo's fear spell and my fear Shout did the same thing. I wondered if the spells shared the same origin, and had to ask myself the question:  _Where does dragon magic come from?_

Aetherius. Magnus. Akatosh. Akatosh...

Stepping into a puddle of something viscous dragged me out of my musings. Shades were still forming, and still attacking. Darius had ended his impressive spell, casting instead basic undead-specific fear spells. Fa'nir stood in front of the young Imperial, slashing with his claws at any approaching specter. I saw a flame atronach swirl and cast fireballs at the undead swarm, and knew Brelyna was behind her summoning. Elodie had conjured a ghostly, purple sword, and joined Fa'nir in protecting Darius. Selina stood behind them all, unleashing arrows she would hopefully be lucky enough to easily retrieve, later. Stenvar, Athis and Njada had moved to the left of Darius and the others, hacking away wildly at the shades, while Ingjard had finally caught up with me, covering my back.

As a whole, we surrounded the undead army, careful not to trip over the benches in the middle of the hall. Jenassa and Sharash continued to fight while Ingjard followed me up a short series of steps to the altar. Front and center was the pedestal, and I pressed gently upon its illuminated cut rock. Again, a second beam of light shot upward at an angle, and a door opened. I ran up the steps, Ingjard following, to find another glowing, faceted stone behind the pair of doors.

Dead end. The area had caved in partially, crushing wooden furniture and ceramic pots. I turned back toward the center of the hall just in time to see a specter burst into vapor after coming into contact with the white beam emanating from the stone atop the central pedestal. The mental connection I made between cause and effect was instant: Meridia's Light killed the undead. Or, more accurately, perhaps, pure energy – that was what Darius called Meridia, the Lady of Infinite Energies – was the key to the destruction of the undead. If Meridia's Light was the key to the destruction of the undead, then Malkoran somehow figured out how to harness this power to  _create_  the undead. He corrupted pure energy into something sinister. Dark energy. Dark matter. Dark magic.

The corrupted spirits kept forming, and I worried they would not stop until we found and killed Malkoran. If these spectral slaves were harnessed using corrupted energy, and energy could never truly be destroyed, then these shades might never cease attacking.

Jenassa and Sharash, still near me and Ingjard, continued their offensive tactics. I worried for their stamina, and their lives, if the undead army kept reforming. I needed time. I needed time to think, to speak with Ingjard, to form a Plan B.

Several Shouts came to mind, ones that would help for a short while, if only long enough to give my friends a rest. One group of shades to my right were packed tightly. I breathed in deep, exhaled, breathed in again and Shouted the words, " _Zun haal viik_ ". Weapon, hand, defeat. Half a dozen specters were relieved of their swords and shields, made instantly vulnerable to Stenvar, Njada, and Athis as well as any mage behind them who decided to take advantage of the moment.

But more shades only reformed a moment later to my left. I needed a different Shout. I needed time.

I did not know the Shout well, only managed to control the first word of the triad, but I knew using it would buy me about half a minute, long enough to give my companions at least a moderate rest. But the effect of the Shout only worked on my immediate surroundings. I had to be near the bulk of our group.

Without warning Ingjard, I grasped her forearms and growled the words, " _Feim zii gron_ ," instantly turning us both into ethereal beings. The effect was the same as what Torug had used after killing Ulfric – he had become like a ghost.

"Follow me!" I yelled to Ingjard before running, if intangible feet could actually run, into the midst of the shades and beyond, towards Stenvar and Darius. I turned back to find Ingjard had not moved at all. I motioned her forward, and finally she came. Wasting no more time, at Darius's side I inhaled deeply before shouting a single word: " _Tiid_." Time. It was the same in Norren, though pronounced slightly different due to having one less vowel.

I watched as the shades outside the area of effect of my Shout moved in slow motion while my companions moved normally. The creatures made horrible, angry faces, slow yet unrelenting in their attempts at vanquishing us. Fearing the effect of my previous Shout would soon diminish, I cast a ward orb around myself those near me.

The shades that had been too close were thrust back through the air, momentarily stunned. The ward magic, in the same family of spells as healing and unread-repulsion, had fended off the specters. A heartbeat later, Ingjard and I were made corporeal again. As I maintained the ward orb, watching my companions fight with increased fervor, I spoke to those around me over the din.

"I don't think these ghosts will stop coming!"

"I think you're right!" answered Ingjard. "Do you have a plan?"

"Find Malkoran," I yelled back.

"Through this!?"

"Yes!"

Ingjard grabbed my armored forearm, turning me to her. "And if everyone here tires!? What then? You just did something – I don't remember seeing that before. You controlled the ghosts!"

"Darius can, too!" I reminded her. "They will not be without aid! The others will follow, and distract the ghosts!"

"And if they do not follow? What if we are attacked by as many ghosts by ourselves!?"

I eyed Ingjard, unsure of what to say. I remained silent and turned back to watch Stenvar begin to move at the same speed as the specters. I breathed in deep, and repeated the Shout that slowed time. Stenvar lowered his weapon, stealing a moment's respite. Behind us and away from my Shouts, Jenassa and Sharash continued their assault.

At this point, still maintaining a magical orb around myself and Ingjard, I had expected to feel tired. I did not. Between Wuunferth's necklace, Yrsarald's ring, my enchanted armor and having, in the end, laying partially exposed to the stars despite not sleeping, my magical stores felt limitless. My magical energy regeneration, too, was definitely increased. I felt invincible. I had to remind myself that I was not.

Ingjard spoke close to my ear. "Are we going to escape this mess the same way we fell in?"

Turning to her, I yelled back, "Just follow this time!"

 

Becoming like a ghost felt odd. The body tingled after every nerve ending lost sensation, and tingled once more after regaining form. The effect of the Shout initiated immediately upon uttering the third word, and lasted something over a minute.

As Ingjard and I fled to the left, down a new corridor, I shot ahead of us several bursts of Magelight. There were no further disruptions by shades, and I knew by the sound of our companions that they had followed. We found ourselves in another hall, one with raised stone walkways just as Saarthal had. A rotting log ramp to our right led us up. We were met with two angry specters who we did not hesitate to vaporize.

Another dead end – a door that could not be unlocked, and Brelyna was preoccupied. I spotted a second log ramp just ahead, and scrambled down again to the main floor. Up the second ramp we found another locked door.

"Brelyna!" I screamed for my friend, but then turned around and spotted another illuminated stone on a pedestal. I trotted across the archway, pressed the stone-key, and as before a beam of light connected to another key, and I heard a loud click not behind me, but to my left.

"Shit." I ran back the way I came, Ingjard forever trailing, and went up once more on the first log ramp.

"Up on your right!" I called back to my companions who were still fending off dark spirits.

I pushed open the door, and was blinded by the light of day.

 

Everyone had made it safely to the outside, and the specters did not follow. The balcony was expansive, fitting us all easily. We took the opportunity to rest.

Well, some of us did.

"What were you thinking!?" Jenassa hollered at me. It was obvious she that was angry about the fact that I ran. Jenassa was a planner, always needing to know what was going to happen as much as possible. She had suffered quite a few scrapes and cuts, not unlike the rest of the group who did not wear heavy armor from head to toe. A wound on her left bicep was particularly worrying.

"You're wounded," I diverted.

"Brelyna will see to that. Why did you  _run_?"

"I did not run, Jenassa. I had to find a way out of that room. I had to find Malkoran. I did not know coming into this temple that the ghosts would keep coming after being killed. We are lucky we have this place – none of them have followed."

"Yes, we are lucky." Jenassa pursed her lips and squinted her dark red eyes. Her jaw muscles tightened and relaxed. "So we move forward, then. Look for the necromancer."

"It is the only way to stop the ghosts, I think."

Jenassa pondered the new plan for a moment, and then nodded and walked over to Brelyna.

Finally left alone, I took the opportunity to gaze around me. The same stylized eagle or hawk statues that we had seen inside were built outside with stones. On them were mounted more illuminated stones, each connected by a beam of white light. The path of light continued beyond a stone bridge, wrapping up and around what had turned out to be a mountainside.

"Give yerselves a few moments," Stenvar bellowed from near the door we had exited from. "Then we move on."

Ingjard and I sat alone, staring off into the distance. All I could see was trees and mountains.

"That Shout you used," she began, "the one where you turned into a ghost, or like a ghost..."

"Yes?"

"Is that not similar to what Torug did after he killed Ulfric?"

I nodded. "I think it is the same. He turned blue and like a ghost. We did the same."

"I never saw you do that before."

"I practiced sometimes in private; you know that."

Ingjard removed her helmet and scratched her scalp. A moment later, she muttered, "I nearly shit myself." She turned to me, smirking, and we laughed.

"Sorry." I only hoped the Shout didn't also deafen her, as it well could have.

My bodyguard shrugged, and stretched and flexed her arms, recuperating.

 

"That was a fuckin' terror,"Stenvar spat. The rest of our companions murmured in agreement.

The room we reached after resting on the balcony, a high-vaulted area with caged walkways and a maze of corridors around it, required three stone-keys to be pressed. Each of the stones were located in different places, far away from one another, accessed by different routes. Luckily, mine was not the only hand that could activate the stones, and while most of us distracted the specters, Sharash, Athis, and Jenassa searched for access to the other pedestals. The process took perhaps an hour, as not even the life-revealing Shout I knew helped locate the other stone-keys.

Despite the fresh batch of corrupted spirits distracting us, we now knew what to do, as a group.

Though my life-revealing Shout did not reveal the way to the stone-keys, it did tell me that Malkoran was not far. In fact, he awaited us in the next hall, just down another set of corridors, surrounded by more shades. As planned while on the balcony, Elodie, Ingjard, Stenvar, and myself would attack Malkoran while Darius kept most of the specters at bay. Darius claimed to feel fine, not tired by his extensive use of heavy Restoration magic. I believed him. Even so, Sharash promised to stand by him, magic-regenerating potions at the ready.

When I had sensed my surroundings, noting the proximity of Malkoran, I felt a second presence that I had not noticed before. I could not describe the object or being, but I knew that, like Malkoran, it was a target. My target.

The artifact. It had to be the artifact. The room that awaited us held its own power, I had sensed, a ceremonial chamber of sorts. It was the depths of this ancient temple, a place of great power, long forgotten until Malkoran weaseled his way inside.

I could not know what would happen when I saw the artifact. I did not know if I was meant to take it from Malkoran or destroy it. Meridia never instructed me in this detail. I supposed, as with most things involving this mission, I would figure it out when the moment arrived.

When the time came to hunt down the necromancer, I broke free from the undead mob, letting Darius take my place as controller. Ingjard followed close behind, with Stenvar and Elodie following after. Stenvar tried to take the lead, but I refused, asking him to trust me.

And then I saw it, the large doorway beyond which awaited Malkoran and his slaves. I did not pause for long. As I trotted down the steps, I sent forth a fireball from my lips, followed by the strongest forceful push I could manage. The Shouts, quick in sequence, took more energy than I had predicted, and I faltered. Ingjard caught me, and I found my footing.

"Distract them!" I ordered my companions.

The final hall was illuminated by dozens of candles and lit braziers. We were greeted by no less than ten specters, with Malkoran controlling them from a raised platform. Dozens of bodies littered the temple floor, and the air hung heavy with decay. I gagged, but pressed on.

The shades shrieked and advanced, dissipating quickly as our blades and magic cut through their ethereal bodies. Elodie cast a purple haze of magic – something from Oblivion. She was likely trying to counter Malkoran's hold on the spirits.

I sensed it, the artifact. I sensed  _her_. Meridia's Light shot through an opening in the wall toward another pedestal that stood on an altar behind Malkoran. The necromancer was casting conjuration magic of his own, chanting in what was likely elvish. He was dressed in a black robe, and I could see a bright red, pointy beard poking out from the shadows of his hood.

" _Feim zii gron!_ " My flesh became air, and I walked towards Malkoran. Though his face was concealed, his body language and a pause in his speech told me I had caught him off guard.

" _Wuld nah kest!_ " The Shout sent my body forward, passing straight through Malkoran, landing on my ethereal feet behind him.

Before the necromancer could turn or flee, my nearly-solidified right foot kicked his rear, and the man fell forward from the altar. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Stenvar's sword flash, Elodie's ponytail whip, and Ingjard's shield flutter. The sellsword spat curses as his sword terrified the attacking shades. The conjurer laughed as she spun, sending her spectral sword through the ghostly bodies of corrupted spirits. The bodyguard cried out victorious when a bash of her shield caused yet another specter to vanish into a puff of black smoke.

" _Iiz slen nus!_ "Malkoran was still splayed on the stone floor when a burst of ice formed from my breath, crystallizing upon his flesh and robe. The man wailed in pain, and quickly vanished.

"Fuck," I muttered. " _Tiid!_ "

Time slowed down around me as I waited for Malkoran to reappear. I walked around, not wanting to stay in one place lest he attack me from behind.

" _Laas yah nir._ " Though the whisper distorted the forms around me in a bright shade of red, I knew each and every one of them. I could sense their heartbeats, and their emotions. They were  _exhilarated_. Stenvar, Elodie, and Ingjard were all fine, more than fine, fending off shade after shade, grunting and laughing all the same.

Malkoran. Malkoran. Malkoran.

I could sense the necromancer and the darkness that surrounded us. He was somewhere here, cloaked by strong magic. Undetectable, much more so than Fa'nir's spells accomplished.

" _Tiid!"_  I needed more time. More time. More...

Light. I turned around, fixing my eyes on the artifact Malkoran had been standing in front of. I trotted up to the altar. The pedestal, commanding the focus of anyone in the chamber, was made of a green-gold metal just as all the pedestals in the temple were. At its top, surrounding a glass or crystal orb, was a frill of the same metal. It faced outward and up, absorbing the rays cast down by Meridia's Light from an opening in the rock wall. The stone glowed bright white in response. The frill and orb were reminiscent of a sun. Cupping this stylized sun on each side were two hands, and two more at the front of the pedestal were shown reaching up from below, struggling to grasp at the light. Encasing the entire structure were two feathered wings, an obvious likeness to the gargantuan statue that topped the temple.

Embedded vertically within the structure was a sword, its handle peeking out from above the glowing orb. From behind the structure I could see the sword more clearly. It was made out of the same metal as its pedestal, and above the hilt of the sword was an encased white-translucent gem about the size of a walnut shell. This smaller gem gave off no light of its own.

The entire guard of the sword was also reminiscent of a sun. The gem's round setting looked almost like a coil of overlapped scales – a reptilian eye. Surrounding the setting was a larger, more delicate circle, with thickened supports at its top and bottom. One could easily argue that I had dragons on the brain, and that I also had a thing for snakes, but the outer circle of the handle guard to me looked like an ouroboros. The appearance was likely coincidental, I told myself.

My actions were tentative, entirely unsure if I wanted to touch a timeless, Daedric artifact that had just been used by a necromancer to ensnare and command specters. But Meridia was in my head, telling me to take the sword; the sword was mine, and I was the sword's. It belonged in my hand, an extension of my body, a means to fend off the undead.

Before grasping the handle, I let my fingers graze the surface of the diamond-like crystal. It was randomly cut, but its multiple facets were reminiscent of Meridia's Light, the cut stone that she used to communicate with me, which had guided us through her temple using similar objects. After a moment, the crystal began to emit light on its own. I pulled back quickly, startled, and the light faded. I leaned in again, letting the pads of my right first and second fingers run over the facets. The light returned, no doubt responding to my touch. I smiled at the gentle, tingly warmness.

Stenvar howled at me through grunts of exertion. "Deb, what are you doin'!? Find that fucker n' kill 'im! I don't wanna stay in here any longer. It fuckin'" _‒_ _grunt_ _‒_ _"_ stinks!" He then grumbled something to himself about " _skryden"_. I ignored him.

The pedestal itself was gorgeous, and I almost felt like I should leave the sword in there forever, as a display of sorts. Artifacts belonged on display, after all. But the voice in my head kept whispering,  _Take it,_ _t_ _ake the sword; she belongs to you._

I smiled in confidence as my fingers wrapped around the bronze-colored handle and, slowly, pulled.

Sword in hand, I swooned. Metal clinked against stone, and the world turned cold and dark.

. . . . . .

Blackness. I felt it. Like being encased in cold, wet velvet while sitting inside an airtight box, the darkness draped heavily over me. I opened my eyes. No, they were already open, but nothing could be seen. There was no light.

I was laying prostrate, chest, abdomen and thighs chilled by the stone ground. I was naked and shivering in complete darkness, but the thought of "where did my armor go" outweighed any others. Slowly, I registered what I felt with my body. Cold dampness, like a cellar floor. Stone, and some grit. It smelled of earth and wet limestone. A cave. And then, metal. I felt cold metal around my wrists, tight. I moved slightly, and heard the sound of metal scraping against stone, and metal clinking against metal. Heavy metal. I could smell it.

I was in irons.

Panic hit me. Hampered by no other ambient noise, deep thudding pounded in my ears. My heart was attempting to flee from my chest, panicked by the all-too familiar feeling of being lost in the darkness. I blinked. I blinked harder. The muscles surrounding my eyes and perhaps the nerves themselves began to hurt, just as they had before, years ago. The muscles of my forehead strained. I was at once back in that cave with no light to guide my way. Unbroken, but bound. Bound in irons. Naked.

"Hell-lo? M-Meridia?" I called carefully. Quickly, a response came in the form of my own faded, quivering voice.

 _Thud, thud. Thud, thud. Thud thud, thud thud, thud thud, thud thud._ I forced myself to calm my breathing. The air was thick and cold. Hyperventilation was painful.  _Swallow. Swallow again. Close your eyes. Breathe through your nose._

I tried to lift my arms but I could not. The irons were shackled close to the floor. My feet, however, were free. I pulled my knees toward my chest, shifting to an awkward, stooped kneeling position. Sighing, and with a small groan, I maneuvered my legs in front of me, letting them stretch out. I shifted forward, my backside scraping the cold stone. Finally, my hands were upon the peg that secured my shackles, tugging. It had been embedded into the stone, deep, and was not budging. The chains themselves were only several feet in length, but at least from this position I knew I could swat and kick away whatever had taken me prisoner.

 _Prisoner._ The realization finally hit. Thoughts of my absent armor faded and the reality of being  _shackled_  in the dark became the primary issue. I gave the peg another tug.

 _Magic._  The whispering reminder calmed me. When I first crash-landed in Skyrim, I had no control over any magic. But now….

I opened my eyes and looked to where I knew my right hand to be. " _Latta_ ," I whispered, willing the ancient elven word to answer my plea and send out a blue-white ball of Magelight. But instead of light emitting from my palm, a shock of electricity shot at my right wrist and traveled up to my shoulder, lasting only a second but nevertheless causing me to cry out from one of the most severe pains I'd ever experienced. I was paralyzed, initially, but the right side of my body shuddered involuntarily for a few moments after the jolt.

 _Enchanted_. The irons had to have an enchantment on them. Not just magic-suppression, like those cages that the vampires at that fortress were held in, but anti-magic.

I was no fool. An experimenter at heart, yes, but no fool. No more magic.

Panic once again threatened heart palpitations. But then, I wondered.  _Dovahzul_. Dragon words. Werethose magic?It was unlikely that they followed the same metaphysical laws. Or, at least that's what I told myself. I had to try. At worst, I would just have been electrocuted again.

 _Calm, calm yourself_. Eyes open yet seeing nothing, I parted my lips to form one simple word. " _Laas._ " The Shout manifested without effort, without a breath, and without retaliation.

 _Good, good, this is good._ But nothing glowed red. Nothing, not even myself. " _Laas ya_ _h_ _nir_ ," I whispered somewhat louder, giving the innately powerful words even more power. I looked up. Down.

Nothing.

 _Become Ethereal_. That was what the Greybeards called it, the Shout that turned its wielders into a ghost-like being, temporarily. I inhaled and exhaled several times, seeing in my mind's eye my translucent flesh escaping from my bonds. I would be free.

" _Feim zii gron!"_

I tugged at the irons, and they tugged back.

I gulped. Panic set in again. I was alone. Alone, cold, chained and contained, and no one was here to answer me as to why.

_Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud._

"Elodie!?" I cried, louder. Again only a sharp echo entered my ears.

I whimpered. My fists clenched.

My magic was unusable. My Shouts did nothing. I sobbed as I whispered " _laas_ " one more time, praying something would be there, something for my eyes to focus on. Nothing. Relinquishing any hope of company, I closed my eyes and let the tears come. My breaths quickened. My chest hurt. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. In out, in out, in out. The hyperventilation was happening again. I needed something. I needed someone. I needed help.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. I sobbed my final plea. " _Stenvar!_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skryden - Critters
> 
> Shouts used:  
> Aura Whisper: Laas Yah Nir, Life Seek Hunt  
> Unrelenting Force: Fus Ro Dah, Force Balance Push  
> Become Ethereal: Feim Zii Gron, Fade Spirit Bind  
> Disarm: Zun Haal Viik, Weapon Hand Defeat  
> Dismay: Faas Ru Maar, Fear Run Terror  
> Whirlwind Sprint: Wuld Nah Kest, Whirlwind Fury Tempest  
> Slow Time: Tiid (Klo Ul), Time Sand Eternity


	38. The Inevitable Knower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: major bodily injury.

Tears rolled down my face to my chest. My body shuddered, perhaps somewhat of a measure to keep warm. I couldn't wrap my arms around myself so instead I scooted forward again and hugged my knees to my chest. The downy hairs of my legs stood on end, either in fear or chill or both. Gooseflesh perked across the rest of my body. I shivered. I sobbed.

In my mind's eye I saw Yrsarald and Bird and Marcurio and Flavia, my weird otherworld family, cuddled around a hearth, chatting happily. I felt the hot, stinky breath of my dog Sam, heard his panting. I saw my mother and sister bickering about something trivial, like how to properly load a dishwasher. And I saw my father.

His thick, salted brown curls tangled in the ocean breeze. The air was so warm, sun-blessed and lofty like any spring Hawaiian breeze would be. He was examining my day's work, a collection of shells from the beach, my priceless souvenir of our family vacation.

" _Daddy_ …." The mournful mewl came instinctively. I could feel his arms around me.

" _He can't hear you._ "

Startled, my body jerked upright, and my sobs ceased immediately. A muddy, somnolent, and deep voice had called out to me. In English. " _What?_ " I whispered back.

" _Nonnne of them can hear you_ …."

" _What_?  _Wh-why not_?  _Is this the temple_?  _Where are they_ _!?_ " The chains rattled beneath my violent demand.

"Anna… Rrrachelll… Jake… Sssammm…." At the mention of my dog's name, the voice laughed, although languidly. " _So… so far away, and, yet, I can smelllll themmm_ …."

" _What!?_ " I yanked the chains again, but the peg persisted. " _Where are my friends!? Elodie!"_

" _They remainnn where they were left, watching over your_ _apparition_ _, the scarred one evvver protective_ …."

I blinked hard, willing the owner of the voice to appear, light a candle,  _something_. And then I felt a hand press to my shoulder. No, not a hand. A snake. Though not at all afraid of snakes I jerked my shoulder as roughly as I could, shaking off the animal.

 _Thud thud, thud thud, thud thud._ " _Laas!_ " I whispered harshly, spitting out the sound, commanding the presence to show itself to me.

And there it was, there  _they_  were, a writhing mass of snakes on the walls and on the ground, surrounding me, waiting. Another dared come near me, grazing my thigh. My elbow shoved it on its way.

" _What the fuck_ _!?_ " I cried out, beyond aggravated.

" _Ohhh, I thought you lov_ _vv_ _ed snakesss…._ " The lazy laughter stewed through the thick air.

" _Who the FUCK are you_ _!? W_ _hat is going o_ _n!?"_

" _You don't remember me_ _?_ "The voice growled, rumbling my insides. " _I'm… hurt…."_

Another snake slid over me, this time on my back. Another, my left bicep. Three more joined in across my legs. They constricted. They held me. My violated body shivered in memory.

"Mora… Hermaeus Mora?"

" _Ohhh_ ,  _you_ _do_ _rememberrr. How delightful_." A snake caressed my cheek.

My body began to not just shiver, but quake. These snakes were not snakes, not if this was Hermaeus Mora. They were tentacles. The Daedra Lord of Knowledge finally had me, and was now caressing my skin with his cold, slimy fingers. Visions of what might happen next ran rampant through my mind.

His dampened chuckling echoed against the stone. " _You... 'Earthlings' and your obsssession with tentacle rape._ "His voice clicked, recognizable to me as a sound of dissent. _"Believe me, nothing innnterests me less."_

I swallowed hard in distrusting relief. My fists tightened around the chains, however, aching muscles still wary against invasion.

" _No, I have no interest in your b_ _bb_ _ody. No, nooo…. I have been trying so, sooo hard to bring your mind to me, so that I may know what you know. My first attempt faiiiled! Thwarrrted…. Your consciousness was made physical, and my prize ssstolen!_ " He hissed the last word of the sentence angrily, and grumbling followed.  _"My second, so close, sooo…. Meridia, oh, how she secludes you, keeps you to herself and those Aedra she now allies with. She is not like me_ _or those whom mortals call Daedra_ _, no. She is not like any of us children of the universe…. But now, nowww I have you. Yes, you are mine, now, for as longgg as it takes."_

" _Yours…. Yours_ _!?_ " I spat. " _Did you mean to weaken me, my spirit? Take away my clothes and_ _chain_ _me, take away my magic? Oh, but you aren't going to_ _sexually_ _violate me with your tentacles. What a relief."_

Mora laughed again, obviously enjoying every second of this encounter. " _Your spirit. Yesss, your spirit. Your minnnd._ " Several tentacles encased my head and face, squirmed around it, and pressed against my skin and scalp, gently. " _Oh, the secrets and mysteries you hold within. I could e_ _ee_ _asily… squish! Pop!_ " More chuckle-growling. " _But no, the more you grow, the more you have to offer…. Hmm, yes. Bones, stones, tongues, beliefs, technology, events passed…. Yes, yesss…._ "

I struggled against his vile touch, but the movement was futile. My head began to hurt, but not from the pressure of the monster's appendages. He was inside me, my mind, as if he had sent nanobots to scan each and every crevice of my brain. In the darkness through strained eyes, I saw flashes of green. Distant and small, the little lights glowed, blinking on and off slowly like faint, soft LED lights on a hundred sleeping laptops.

I wished I could have used my Shouts. Fire, yes, fire would have been useful, though likely that would have angered my captor. I wanted out of this ordeal alive. Ice. I could have made ice, too. A Daedric ice statue. Same difference. Force would have just pushed him away momentarily.

" _Ahhh, yyyesss,_ _rememmmberrr. R_ _emember for me…. Remember alllll of it!_ "

I stopped thinking about Shouts. I stopped thinking outright. I stopped squirming, stopped giving the creature whatever thrill he was achieving by my reluctance. I calmed, completely.

" _What is it that you want, exactly?_ " I asked, doing my best to keep my voice calm.

" _My dearrr, my dear I am a collector. Want? All. Evvvery. Given. Forbidden. Painful or swwweet._ " More tentacles swirled around my body.

There was nothing that I could do. I wasn't even truly there. He had stolen my consciousness, as Meridia had before. We were speaking and acting in my dream, or in a land created by dreams – nightmares, rather. We were communicating in my natural language, or perhaps thoughtspeak. Was my nakedness the result of my own subconscious, as Meridia had suggested before my first encounter with Mora? Like nightmares that involved standing in front of a crowd without any clothes on, I wondered if my state now was an artifact of my insecurities.

 _Wait._  I halted my thoughts. " _First attempt_?" I asked aloud. " _You said, 'my first attempt, thwarted'. I was made physical. You…._ "

No. No. Not possible. Not….

My body stiffened, not from defense against tactile and mental invasion, but rather from pure, unadulterated rage.

" _You…_ _killed_ _me! The scaffolding, you…."_ It was my turn to growl. " _It broke! You broke it beneath me!_ "

Mora's laughter bounced off the stone and vibrated the entire cavern. My head continued to hurt from the mental probing, and I winced.

" _Killed! Broke the scaffolding! You!"_

I squealed. He laughed. The pain was sharper then, like needles pressed into my temples. The sensation became overwhelming, and even my consciousness couldn't withstand the suffering.

. . . . . .

Moments, hours, or possibly days later I awoke to a sky of smoggy puss-green swirls. The floor was still damp and cold beneath me. I was still naked. However, I was no longer shackled, and no longer in the dark. I blinked against the onslaught of light, and took in the rest of my surroundings.

The floor was a mix of basalt, iron, and some sort of ash-like substance that created the grit I had felt earlier. Something fluttered across my vision. I thought it was a leaf, but there were no trees, only iron and stone citadels stretching across the horizon, tall and short, wide and narrow, curved and straight, some even swirling. I found the flying object. It was a piece of paper. Following its path, I realized that some of the structures surrounding the place where I was sitting were formed by books, scrolls and papers, all woven together by iron or nothing at all. Magic, most likely.

My gaze scanned the rest of the area, and something dark caught my eye. It was gone when I turned toward it, whatever it was, but I knew I had seen something. But shivering with the feeling of being watched, I knew something was behind me. I dared not whip around, resisting the urge to fling naked arm or leg in defense. I resisted the urge to attack without knowing what I was attacking. Rather, I swallowed my fear, stood, and turned.

My breath caught in my throat when I looked upon the nightmare floating before me. My eyes were locked onto two, tiny, beady yellow lights that stared back at me from between six… eight… more facial tentacles. Its skin glistened like that of a wet squid out of water. It wore over its shoulders and back a sort of tattered cloth cloak. I saw no legs – it wasn't standing, anyway – but rather more tentacles. Again, like a squid. It boasted what appeared to be two sets of spindly, taut arms, one set larger than the lower almost vestigial pair. Dark talons topped each of its twenty digits. Mainly, I found myself gawking at its most terrifying and puzzling piece of anatomy, its abdomen. Where a navel or other such normal midsection feature might have sat on a human, this creature displayed a gaping, toothed maw that was apparently its mouth, as it may not have had one under its facial tentacles. The moment the monster knew I had seen this horrifying feature, the multitude of teeth gnashed, and I whimpered.

The creature simply hovered there another lasting moment before turning away from me and floating to my right. I watched it move. I watched it stop. I watched it turn and stare again, tiny yellow twinkles eyeing me. It then turned again, floated some distance, and repeated the action.

It wanted me to follow it, like an eerily calm dog that didn't otherwise know how else to command, or implore.

Knowing full well that I had no other choice than to comply, I followed. The being floated its way further along iron and stone walkways, and soon I was gazing down upon more and more of the same sorts of structures. At the bottom of the valley, or base of whatever tower I was standing on, was what appeared to be a moat of churning black oil.

Further out we went. The floor became a sort of woven iron filigree, and footing was uncertain at best.  _No wonder you float_ , I thought towards the creature. Its tentacles quivered, as if in response.

We exited the area where I had awoken and came upon a flower-like platform made up of the same iron filigree. Above it was poised a similarly-made grotesque chandelier of sorts, sans candles. Towering around the platform at some distance away were spindles of iron or stone, and swirling around them as if caught in a dust devil were various papers.

I was in a demonic library.

In the center of the platform stood an iron podium, atop which sat a hand-thick, black leather-bound book with a glowing circular emblem on the cover. The emblem featured Hermaeus Mora in all his tentacled horribleness. The physical similarity between him and my hovering guide was curious.

Without my needing to touch it, the book opened. Pages flitted by and finally landed near the back, on a blank page. A chill swept through the heavy, sulfuric air, and below the iron chandelier appeared a mass of oily, black tentacles and dozens, hundreds of green-yellow eyes. I turned to look behind me, but my guide had gone.

" _Finally, you wake_ …," Mora drawled, sounding delighted.

I was no longer shivering. The air had warmed considerably; perhaps the heat from whatever lay below radiated to the height where I stood. Acutely reminded of my nakedness, I folded my arms over my chest.

I turned back to Mora. " _What… what happened? I was asleep? For how long?"_

" _Not long_ _._ _My Seekers brought you to this tower, so that I may return the favor."_

I blinked and rubbed my upper arms, confused. " _Favor?_ "

" _A gift, in thanks, young 'Earthling'."_

I was stunned. " _For what? What did you do!?"_

Languorous laughter. " _I learrrned. I learned alllll about your world, your people's imaginaaation, your own type of… 'magic'. I learned of your desire for re_ _ee_ _vennnge on the one called... Torug. Ohhh, you are wise to not yet seek him out. He is fa_ _rr_ _r stronger."_

" _You… took my thoughts?"_  I asked, moderately calm. " _My memories? Knowledge about my world?"_  My fingernails pressed into my flesh. " _Is that all_ _?_ "

" _Mmph, yes, yes, that is all I_ _ever_ _wanted of you, Outlander. Your knowledge is unique, priccceless. The others offered no more than…,"_ the demon took in a breath, _"carrrd tricksss…."_

I stared into the mass above me as it swam in the warm, humid air. " _Others?_ " was all I managed to utter, though it was clear to me that Mora was referring to the four British men. I hoped they were alright.

" _Dussst in the winnnd…,"_ was Mora's reply.

I scoffed. " _Did you kill_ _them_ _too? What do their families_ _smell_ _like? And how can you_ smell _my father seeming how he_ _died_ _twelve years ago!?"_

" _Mmm portals, portals…. Sooo many portals. The Thalmor are helping with that. But, tooooo many portals, no, this cannot last. I lllike this world of… mmmorrrtalllsss. I want to keep it! You must stop them, dragon-blooded, you, and your friendsss."_

As Mora spoke, images began to appear on the blank pages before me. Sketches of elves, noted by their pointed ears, stood in a circle around an orb with intricate designs. The sketches then began to shift, to animate. I watched transfixed as the elves walked around the orb that floated above a circular platform, spinning, its designs pulsating from dark to light. The orb and elves then vanished in a flash, leaving behind just the platform, surrounded by shrubs.

" _What was that_?"

" _Where you need to be, once I releassse you."_

" _But, where? What was that? Where was it?_ "

The creature chuckled.  _"First you must go to the Sssummoning Stonesss. The Sssumoner summoned swarmmms of submissive specters to stand sssentinel over their sssinister scheeemes…."_

I gazed back down at the once-again still sketch. " _What?_ "

Laughter. " _You will understand, when you feel it. And now, dragon-blooded, my true gift to you. Look once more upon my book…._ "

I glared up at the mass of terror hovering above me. " _I do not want anything from you. Murderer."_

More laughter. "Goraan _, a gift given glaaadly need not be granted gateway. It is a gift - and you will receive it. Recall, dragon-blooded, how paaained you were when you… 'ate'… that dragon's sssoul. Recall the voices you heard. Recall the uuurge you felt to utter the Dragonspeak. Nowww imagine it a_ _lll_ _ll happening again, only… easier,_ _q_ _uicker,_ _m_ _ore… certain. You have only_ _experienced_ _a_ _fraction_ _of what your blood offers. Look…."_

" _No._ "

" _Look!_ " Mora growled and shot down two tentacles toward me, each gripping an arm and pulling me against the podium where the massive book was displayed. My upper stomach pressed against cool iron and my breasts plopped atop a set of blank pages. Mora's tentacles held my wrists to the top of the podium. A third gripped the back of my head. My back was forced into a forward arch. My face had nowhere else to look but at the book.

" _Rrread._ "

I stared at the page as slashes and dots inked their way across the paper.  _Dovahzul_. I recognized the writing immediately.

" _Read!_ " the Daedra commanded with a vicious growl.

I focused on the first word. A series of vertical lines, a dot, and two slanted lines. " _Mul_ ," I recited the dragon word. It meant 'strength'.

" _Good, good yes, the Monks on the Mountain have learned you well. Finishhh."_

The second word was shorter, though all that meant was that the symbols used to inscribe it required less writing. " _Qah_ ," I whispered. Armor.

" _How fffunny these ophidian phhhrases…."_

The third word was the most complicated. " _Diiv_ ," I concluded. The meaning of the word was unknown to me. It sounded like ' _dov'_ , dragon, but I had not been taught this word by the Greybeards and I had no dragon soul awake within me to teach me its meaning. " _I don't know what '_ diiv'  _means,_ " I admitted, still pinned to the podium.

" _No? Wellll, thennn, the ssstudent becomes the teacherrr…._ " Mora growled as he chuckled. "'Diiv' _in your language means 'wyrm', whichhh, of course, holds a meaning closer to 'sssnake' than to 'drrragon'."_ Mora let loose his tentacles, allowing me to stand up straight. An imprint of the book and podium had impressed itself into my flesh. It itched.

" _Strength, Armor, Wyrm? What do those words mean? Is that a Shout?"_

" _These words will awwwaken within you the will of the wy_ _rr_ _rm-souled,_ _wieldy warriors_ _who once wandered the world."_

 _Mul. Qah. Diiv. Mul qah diiv._  I repeated the phrase to myself. " _What do you mean, the will of the wyrm-souled? Is that not me? Aren't I dragon-blooded and souled? Do you mean to say… other than Torug, were there more like me?"_ Paarthurnax had mentioned Talos, Alessia, and Martin, dragon-kin like myself. Torug and a man named Miraak were dragon hunters. I wondered how much Hermaeus Mora knew.

" _Many, ohhh many before you. Torug stole the first from me. Stole him from under my…. guidance. I was not ready to part with him. The_ Orsimer _now walks the world triumphant and god-like, unfit to be my Champion. You, Earthling, will stop him. Ohhh, yesss, you will. Learn this 'Shout'. Learn it well. Embrace the ensnared energy, become the beast, and an antecedent will come to your aid and bequeath you her blessing. Say it, utter the dragon words to me, Earthling. A fitting farewell!"_

I doubted the Shout would work. I couldn't learn the true meanings of words that quickly, not without a dragon's soul blended with my own to help. At High Hrothgar learning single words took days or weeks. The Greybeards reminded me that this was remarkably fast, that they spent entire lives meditating on a single word or Shout. But I had to admit to myself, I was curious, and I wanted out of Mora's presence. He would have his fitting farewell, but first….

" _Why did you kill me?"_  I asked flatly, staring into his hundred milky, puss-green eyes. " _Why did I have to die? Why couldn't you have just taken this knowledge you thirst for and then throw_ _n_ _me back into my world? Meridia and the others only took my soul once it was there, once I was dead! Why did you cause me to die!?_ "

For half a second, Mora's tentacles stilled before recommencing their flowing, swimming motions. He answered with more sinister chuckling.

" _My Lurkers can be… n_ _nn_ _aughtyyy…._   _It was an accident. I ssswear. Now, speak the words, dragon-blooded._ "

I swallowed my harsh reply and glared down at the three inked words.  _Mul_ _q_ _ah_ _d_ _iiv. Mul_ _q_ _ah_ _d_ _iiv._ Strength, armor, wyrm. Strength and armor of the wyrm. That was what I was. That was  _who_  I was. I was a wyrm, a snake, a creature of the underworld, slithering to and fro between worlds like a god… or demon… shedding its skin to be born again.  _Arkay saw my marks_. Snakes crawled all over my back. Dragon-blooded.  _Embrace the will of the wyrm-souled_. A dragon's will.  _And what is that?_   _What do dragons will?_  I sighed.  _Just do it, get your ass out of here and pray you wake up with your clothes on._

I didn't intend to literally shout the words. It didn't feel necessary.  _A simple utterance should suffice_ , I convinced myself. One breath. Two. Three. I recited the words lazily. " _Mul qah diiv."_  My vision went black, and I fell into the abyss.

. . . . . .

Warmth, low humming, and a strong smell of honey roused me. I smiled, thinking about those two weeks in Hawaii with my family when I was nine years old. I had gorged myself on honey mochi after a visit to a bee farm.  _Mmm, mochi_ ….

My plummet from the iron filigree platform recommenced. With a shriek, I screamed for Mora. I called for the demon's death in three languages.

I heard my name spoken at me in front of my face. Deb. Deb. Deborah. Deb.

_Yes, that's me. Deb. Deb._ _I am not a dragon._

" _Ra_ ,  _ra,_  Deb, it's alright. Stay down."

With a rush, I became grounded, like letting the helium release violently from a balloon. I groaned or wailed or sounded something in-between. I kept my eyes shut, but knew I was in the presence of Stenvar, and somewhere indoors. His hands were upon me, holding down my shoulders, making sure I didn't sit up again. Confident I would stay where I was, a hand left my left shoulder to cup my cheek. I reached up with my own hand and pressed his palm firmly to my flesh. I needed to feel a person, any person, to remind myself of what and where I was.

_Deb. Bed. Warm. Not in a cave. Not dead. Not with Mora._

Eyes still closed, I muttered, "Not Mora."

"What?" Stenvar questioned fruitlessly.

I wasn't in my armor, I could sense that much, but I was wearing something, likely my hide underarmor. Under a fur blanket I was content and warm, so in the end I didn't care where my armor went.

My eyelids creaked open.

"Here, water," Stenvar ordered as he pushed a cup to my face.

I nodded, rose just enough to not choke on the liquid, and took three sips. His forearm helped me retain the position. He insisted I take more water. Satisfied, Stenvar took away the cup and let me lay back down. I closed my eyes.

"You messed yourself yesterday. Ingjard cleaned you up n' redressed you."

 _Messed?_  "What? Yesterday?"

I opened my eyes again and found myself staring up into the furrowed, weathered and scarred visage of my old sellsword friend and his serious grey eyes, every bit of his face full of dire concern. The necromancer's frost spell from months ago had permanently stained a portion of the right side of his face a dull pink, adding to a few faint, old scars, making him look even more badass.

I propped myself up on an elbow. "What day is it? How… how long…?"

"Three days. I…." Stenvar shifted his gaze to the wall. "If it weren't for your friends' spells, we'd've thought you were dead. Couldn't feel your blood flow," he turned back to me, "or breath." The muscles of Stenvar's lower jaw danced with emotion. "That just isn't..." Stenvar looked away again, shaking his head. "I'd never seen that before, as if you were dead." His gaze moved to my hands that lay on my abdomen. His demeanor changed. Harder. A rock. "Don't worry, it's what happens when someone falls into a long sleep. But you'll need new underarmor leggings and smallclothes."

 _What?_ "Oh…." I looked away from Stenvar and concentrated on the wood ceiling. I had apparently been in a coma, and did what coma patients always did.  _Note to self: buy Ingjard something really, really nice._

We were quiet for a while, and then I blurted, "I smell honey."

"Ahh, yeah, I've been drinkin'."

I chuckled wearily, and Stenvar did the same. I wondered if I, in a coma, was the reason he had been drinking. I then groaned, and looked again to the ceiling. "Where are we?"

"Olfina and Jon's house. It's small, but it's somethin'."

The information took a couple seconds to click into place. "We're in Solitude?"

He nodded. "Seemed  _kema_  to sit around in the cold at that temple when the city was a day's ride away. Elodie said you weren't broken, so we just decided to move ya." He smiled, but quickly looked away and stood from the little footstool he had been sitting on.

"And Malkoran?" I asked, hoping the necromancer had been killed.

"Elodie got 'im. The  _bac_  reappeared after you passed out, and then Elodie disappeared only to reappear with 'er magical sword in 'is chest. Selina got an arrow in 'is neck, too. Was kinda easy, if ya ask me. Or, well, ask Elodie." The man shrugged and smirked, and commenced pacing around the small room.

He was wearing some new clothes, or at least ones I had never seen him wear, something made out of what looked like very supple leather, like from a young animal. The outfit was plain at first glance, but upon a second viewing I could make out intricate patterns stitched into the shirt and trousers. The hide and mead-stench joined for an interesting scent.

"He returned, though, as a ghost," Stenvar continued. "That wasn't so easy." Rubbing the back of his neck, he turned back to me. "No one died, though."

Stenvar walked over to a table, grabbed something, and walked it over. "Asleep for three days, your stomach's empty. Too much food, not a good idea." He held up a clump of what looked like grapes and then replaced it onto a wooden plate. "Eat one, chew slow, let it sit. Don't drink too much water too fast, either. And no wine or mead, not for a while, alright? We've got plenty of clean water, here."

I plucked a grape and popped it into my mouth. I recalled that it was called 'jazbay' and that I had eaten them in Whiterun, and pies made from them in Windhelm. I squished the fruit between my palate and tongue and let the juices wash down my still-parched throat before chewing, slowly, as instructed.

After I swallowed, I lay back down and stared again at the ceiling. "Three days?"

"Yep."

"It didn't seem that long."

"What didn't?"

We were interrupted by scurrying outside the small room, which didn't have a door. Beyond the door frame appeared a frazzled but very relieved Ingjard. My bodyguard paled as she entered the room and, betraying a quiet sob, fell to her knees.

"Oh, thank the gods," the warrior blubbered. "I would never have forgiven myself, Dragonborn, for failing to protect you. If you had died…." Her tousled flaming hair fell over her unarmored shoulders as she bowed her head. "Please, forgive me. Allow me to stay at your side. My sword is yours until Shor takes me."

"Ingjard, please, stand." I couldn't help but laugh a little, mainly because I was remarkably dizzy and groggy. "It was not your fault. Not even Meridia's fault. I…." I bit my lip, stopping myself. "I am fine, see? I need food," I said with a grunt as I lowered myself again to the mattress, "but I'm fine."

"Where did you go?" Elodie prodded as she peered into the room. "I searched everywhere for you, this world and otherwise."

I rubbed my forehead, puzzled by Elodie's remark. "Water," was all I said, lazily demanding anyone to hand me a cup. Stenvar readily complied; I drank, and then continued. "Bring Jenassa, Brey, and everyone. I hate repeating myself."

Stenvar looked to Elodie, worry crossing his face. Elodie returned his emotion.

"What?" I asked, unease sparking my nerves.

. . . . . .

Jenassa sat on a bedroll in the main room of the house, staring at the hearth fire. Brelyna and Darius sat by her, fussing over her left side.

Ingjard's words haunted my mind, repeating, overlapping, buzzing and blaming.  _Frozen. Shattered. Frozen_ _and_ _shattered._ _The ice magic hit her._ _Malkoran_ _'s ghost_ _hit her._ _Shattered._ _Her arm had shattered._ _A_ _shade's sword hit her_ _and it shattered_ _._ _Shattered._ _Her arm shattered._ _Frozen._ _S_ _hattered, shattered shattered shattered..._

Stenvar related everything to me. The rest of the group caught up with us after I lost consciousness. Malkoran had cast awful frost spells that cracked Ingjard's sword and singed Fa'nir's fur. Malkoran's ghost was only defeated when Darius cast another circle of protection and J'zargo stalled the attacks with a fear spell. The ghost was invincible to any sword that was not enchanted. It was Stenvar who finished the necromancer once and for all.

Jenassa did not want to live with only one arm; Brelyna had begged her to reconsider. Darius did what he could to mend the tattered, remaining flesh that had thawed, but stitches had to be made after Brelyna's fire magic cauterized the end of the stub.

The stub. The  _stub_.

Jenassa was an archer. A dual-wielder. A sword-and-shielder. Jenassa used both arms for everything, and wrote with her left hand. She did not want to learn how to thrive with only one arm, let alone not her dominant one. For Brelyna, however, she said she would try.

Olfina, whose home our mob had invaded, was supplying Darius with rags and salves, a necessary measure used in combination with healing magic. Such a grave wound would not stay uninfected otherwise.

I walked towards the hearth with hesitation, but it wasn't the stub of an arm I was afraid of. No. It was the guilt.

Though it was not me who had corrupted an army of the undead, not me who had cast the spell that hit Jenassa, it was still me who was called upon by Meridia to cleanse her temple. It was for me Stenvar and Elodie gathered aid. Jenassa and the others were there to help  _me_ , and Hermaeus Mora had caused me to be unable to help those who helped me. If perhaps I had waited to touch that sword I would have been there when Malkoran reappeared, and when his ghost attacked Jenassa. Had I been there, I might have been able to cast a ward, protecting myself and others around me. If, if, if, if, if.

A creak from the wood floor gave away my slow approach. Jenassa's head jerked to her right, slightly, catching a glimpse of me out of the corner of her eye. She slowly turned away.

"Get... her...  _away_... from me."

" _Jenassa!_ " Brelyna hissed under her breath. "You know very well this isn't her fault," I heard my friend say. Brelyna smiled when she looked up at me, full of sorrow and apology. "I'm glad you're finally awake. We were all so worried."

I knelt down by the hearth, leaving a space between myself and Jenassa. "I'm fine," I promised, softly. "And this  _is_  my fault, Brey. I didn't cast the spell, but you know very well this is my fault. You are here because I am here, because you know me, because Stenvar knows me." I turned away, towards the fire. "I'm sorry. This is my fault... and the fault of Hermaeus Mora."

"Mora?" Brelyna gasped, clearly frightened by the mention.

I told everyone there what had happened after I touched the sword. Brelyna, Stenvar, Olfina, Ingjard, Darius, and Selina were horrified. Elodie showed no emotion. J'zargo, Fa'nir, and Sharash were unnerved, and intrigued. And though Jenassa had remained silent and would not look at me, I could tell her interest was piqued.

"It sounds to me like you were in the realm of Hermorah, the Apocrypha," Fa'nir concluded.

"Ah... Apocrypha?" I quietly repeated the word. "Why does that sound familiar? Like I heard it before."

"Perhaps Mora told you the name of the realm," Brelyna suggested.

I shook my head. "No…. No, I think I would remember. I don't know. It sounds  _Greek_."

"'Greek'?" Selina asked.

I waved it off. "Where's my journal?" Ingjard retrieved it, and my knapsack as well. Suddenly the woman felt more like a squire than a bodyguard, but perhaps that was what a 'house-servant',  _skepsehem_ , was.

I wanted to write down what Hermaeus Mora had told me. I didn't want to forget anything. In my 'Dragon Studies' journal I began a new entry where I wrote down the words of the new Shout the Daedra Lord had taught me, forced into my mind.  _Mul_ _q_ _ah_ _d_ _iiv_. And what did it do? It woke up the dragon inside of me. Mora said it would make things easier for me, when it came to dragon-related business, like absorbing their souls. I would know the will of the wyrm-souled. I would be helped by another one.

I stopped writing, and immediately looked up, searching for Elodie.

The blonde beauty blinked back. I squeezed my eyes shut and shook Mora out of my head. I could hear him whispering, in the back of my mind, and with the whispers came alliterative thoughts. It was beginning to drive me nuts. "Elodie," I called, eyes still closed.

"Yes?"

I motioned for her to come closer. When she was standing next to me, I opened my eyes and gazed up at her. "Elodie, do you know a place called the Summoning Stones?"

Her eyes widened for just a moment, long enough to tell me that she was surprised I said those words. "Yes, I know a place with that name. Why?"

I reached out, grasped the sleeve of her robe, and pulled her down to me. Eyes wide and face steeled with certainty, I answered.

"I know where to find the Eye."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for a while, now! The next chapter is only half written, and I have some real world work to do. But then the chapter after the next is already written. There's at least one chapter, after, that needs to be written, and then we're getting very, very close to the ending (which is partially written).
> 
> Thank you for all the faves/follows/kudos. Let me know how you're finding this story with a comment or PM!
> 
> As always, follow me at SCRIPTRIXDRACONUM at tumblr for updates.
> 
> \--  
> Ra - woah/calm/easy  
> Kema - silly  
> Bac - asshole  
> Skepsehem - housecarl  
> \--  
> Goraan - young one  
> Mul qah diiv - Dragon Aspect


	39. Fearless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Elodie’s theme music during the battle in this chapter is “Iron” by Within Temptation. The runes on Dawnbreaker were inspired by the game mod by PV__86._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Thank you to everyone who continues to follow, read, and comment on this story. I get new follows/faves/kudos every week and it really makes my day. I hope you like this chapter despite all the craziness._
> 
> _Important note about this story/series, I made a bit of a flub (okay, a few), that have since been corrected. One, regarding Deb meeting up with Galmar on her way back from High Hrothgar which couldn't have happened since he was in Solitude (the earlier scene has been changed), another involving Marcurio and his background in this story that did not really fit into the insinuated lore (the dialogue has been fixed), and another that was only shown in my side story Dragonbane. Please forgive my lack of thorough research and memory._

Something was different. I felt different. I tried to define the sensation, tried to describe it to myself so that I might understand its origin, but my brain was left wanting. As I stared into my reflection on Meridia’s sword, her artifact, I felt… complete, like an appendage long missing had been reattached.

I concentrated on my eyes. They were _my_ eyes, not a dragon’s, and yet they looked different. Were these really my eyes? I hadn’t seen myself since I left Whiterun, and even then I hadn’t truly _looked_. My mirror for the last three months had been Ingjard. Never once did she tell me that I looked like a different person, only that once, because of Viinturuth, I had become a dragon. Mind of a dragon. Blood of a dragon. Soul of a dragon.

 _Mul qah diiv_. That was what Hermaeus Mora pushed onto me, wasn’t it? _Easier. Quicker. Certain. You have only experienced a fraction of what your blood offers_. Certain - that was something new. I might have feigned certainty before to people, or felt it honestly in brief bursts, but now… _now…._

Now, I understood what I was. Who I was. A loose cog inside me had clicked into place while I was in Oblivion and the machine was now running smoothly. Was Mora to thank for this? Was this his intention?

My hands gripped the sword handle tighter, and my gaze lifted from myself to nothing in particular.

Mora, Meridia, Paarthurnax. All played a part in putting the pieces together. Meridia and other gods, Aedra, they made me. Paarthurnax opened my mind and helped me understand what being Dragonborn meant. Mora, well… Mora unleashed the damn dragon inside me, and on purpose.

I no longer doubted. I no longer felt the flutter of an anxious heart.

I was no longer afraid.

My eyes returned to the glowing Daedric artifact.

A glimmer of red danced along the sword’s length, skirting the runes emblazoned on the blade. _Blade of the Sun_. That was what the runes meant. They were inscribed in the dragon language, perhaps Meridia’s personalized touch – a sword just for me.

 _Every great weapon has a name_ , Stenvar had said. _My old sword is called Skullsplitter. This sword’s just called the Blade of Winterhold… but I like to call ‘er Beauty_. He had then proceeded to kiss the flat of the blade, just above the handle. I laughed at the memory.

This sword, _my_ sword, also had a name. _Dawnbreaker_. Had Meridia told me this? I couldn’t remember. But I knew that this was what the sword wanted to be called. It whispered to me. It _knew_ me, and I knew her. We belonged to each other.

 _She is yours_.

I closed my eyes against the words. Whether the thought was my own or Meridia’s, I could not tell. The goddess, Daedric Prince, whatever she was had not contacted me since before I entered her temple, but I had heard her, felt her, ever since her light by her statue touched my hand. I wondered if she had meant to contact me before Mora took the reins, but I figured she had no need to talk to me. Her temple was down one necromancer, the bodies of the dead had been burnt in a mass pyre, and eventually the place would no longer reek of death. Meridia should have been happy. Even Arkay, patron of funerals, should have been happy.

Meridia had wanted the temple cleansed so that supplicants may worship there. I had no problem helping with this task. I worried, however, that Meridia was going to drop down from the sky and tell me to be her priestess. I was not on board with that scenario.

A knock on the open doorframe won my attention. A skinny, dark figure loomed, waiting permission to enter what had been turned into my bedroom.

“Darius, hello.” I waved the mage in. “What’s—“

“I want to become a priest of Meridia,” he blurted.

From the edge of my bed, I stared up at two very determined icy blue eyes. He was serious.

“I want to bring life back into her temple,” he continued. “I can continue to study Restoration magic, there, and I can teach others.” His eyes gazed into mine, pleading. “What do you think?” I thought he was biting the inside of his lip.

“And Sharash? Does she want to live underground in an ancient temple?”

The young man smiled, a hint of pink flowering on his cheeks. “She’s going to build us a _kiv_ , just outside the temple.”

“Build a what?”

“A _kiv._ A small house, like the orcs usually live in.”

“Ohh….” _Sure, like the orcs usually live in_. I had no clue what that meant, but I thought I had heard Ingjard use that word recently. _Kiv_. Shack. “Well,”—I cleared my throat—“if that is what you want, Darius, it is your choice.”

“You need to make me a priest.”

Fists clenched, posture upright, his body was stiff with anticipation. He really wanted this.

“I don’t know what power I have to make you a priest. You want to be a priest?” I shrugged. “Be a priest. No one will tell you that you are not, or can not.”

“But you’re Her Champion.”

“And I have no idea what making someone a priest is… does….” I scratched a phantom itch on my scalp and stared down at Dawnbreaker, her point piercing the woven reed mat below my feet. Her light shined bright when I held her, and _only_ when I held her.

My head jerked up to Darius when an idea fell into place. I stood, and took the sword along with me. Darius backed away, frightened.

“Don’t worry, Darius.” I chuckled. “Get on your knees.”

“Eh… what?”

“You know, on your knees, like you’re begging. But don’t beg. Please.”

Darius hesitated, his face distorting into one of confusion, but soon descended and knelt before me. Though I had absolutely no idea how to make someone a priest, or if Meridia would approve of Darius, I had the idea to mimic the motions done when a monarch knighted someone. _And why not Darius?_ I asked myself. A mage dedicated to Restoration magic who had read all about Meridia – there was no one better. He was even more qualified than I was. I wondered if the boy had planned this all along.

“Don’t move,” I urged him, calmly. I lowered Dawnbreaker to his left shoulder, and then up again and down to the right. I had no idea if that was the right order. It didn’t matter.

“Stand, Priest of Meridia,” I called to him. It felt hokey, but it was what the kid wanted.

Darius stepped slowly to his feel, all smiles. “Thank you.” He breathed out, satisfied. “Oh!” He jumped, and reached for something to his side, fumbled with a thong, and then handed me a coin purse. “This is your share from what Stenvar and Selina sold. We split it equal, but gave the remaining bit to Olfina.”

“Good. Thanks.”

He left without another word just as Ingjard walked in. My bodyguard watched him leave, and then turned back to me, smirking.

“Why’s the kid so happy?”

I chuckled and sat back down on the edge of my bed. “He wanted to be a Priest of Meridia – whatever that means for him. So, I made him one.”

“You made him one. How?”

“I just...,” I limply swung the sword up before putting it on the bed, “I did a thing that people in my world do… did… when people are recognized as important.”

Ingjard raised her eyebrows and acknowledged my answer with a “hmph” before leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed.

“I’m surprised you can lift that thing,” she noted, pointing to my new sword.

“Why?”

She laughed as she answered. “Because it’s nearly as heavy as my warhammer.”

My brow creased in confusion. “No, it isn’t. It is like your one-handed sword. No, it’s less heavy.”

“Liar.” Ingjard strode to the bed and picked up the sword. The gem and runes remained dormant. “I could never use this as a one-handed sword,” she admitted as she swung it about a few times. “And it’s too short for a greatsword.”

“The sword is meant for me, Ingjard.” I stood and motioned for her to hand me the weapon. I moved as she had, maneuvering myself in the ways she taught me with her heavier steel sword.

After a short while, I placed the sword back down on the bed.

“It needs a _sle_ ,” Ingjard said, stepping back.

“Hmm?”

“Something leather to put it in and hang from your waist. I’ll help you find one in town.”

I turned to Ingjard, startled. “Town?” I looked around, suddenly frantic. “Are we even allowed in this city?”

“The Dragonborn and her companions are, yes. No one needs to know my _methlimonen_. I’m merely your house-servant. And anyway, Stenvar has family here, and Selina is a Whiterun guard. We’re fine.”

Fidgeting, I drummed my fingers on my upper arms. The thought had hit me as soon as I realized the implications of me being in Solitude. Over the months, I had forgotten all about Galmar and what’s-her-face being exchanged while the truce remained. If it were just me, I still wouldn’t have cared. It wasn’t just me, however. I knew I had to do this for Yrsarald.

Looking back to Ingjard, I asked, “Do you think the Jarl will allow me to see Galmar?”

 

“Well, look at you.”

Galmar Stone-Fist huffed as he took in the sight of me. He had been summoned from his quarters after I asked Jarl Elisif if I could meet with “the hostage”, just to see how he was doing. Had she denied my request I would have thought something amiss, but everything was fine. Galmar actually looked happy, and far less tired. He even looked younger. Softer. Cleaner.

I had barely recognized him out of his bear suit. Instead, he wore the typical attire of the elite, similar to what the male jarls and other palace officials wore. I supposed even if he was a political hostage, he was not a prisoner, despite what the people of this city thought of Stormcloaks.

Jarl Elisif and her courtiers left us alone for the duration of our meeting. Though Ingjard had encouraged me to speak to the Jarl as Dragonborn, inform her of what I was doing in her Hold, Elisif had wanted nothing to do with me and barely abided my presence in her palace.

I had waited for Galmar near the palace entrance, out of earshot from everyone but two guards. Galmar clapped his hands against my pauldrons and examined the rest of the armor.

“Nice. Very nice,” he continued, circling me. “All shiny and glowing like a Dragonborn should be.”

Ingjard, standing not far behind me, was probably smirking.

“Yes, Galmar, fancy armor is great. Not obvious to enemies at all that I’m important and probably should be the target of their attack.”

“Bah,” the old man grunted and flapped his hand dismissively. “A worthy enemy will know you in any armor.”

I sighed through my nose. “You seem well.”

“Well enough. I feel like a wolf in a cage, but what can I do.”

“You’re not allowed to leave the palace?”

“I’m a hostage; of course not. At least I can drink them out of mead. Small victories.” He thrust his bearded chin out to me. “How is Yrsarald? And Rikke?”

Rikke. That was her name, the Imperial hostage. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen Yrsarald in months; I came here from High Hrothgar. And he never wrote about Rikke. Does he not write to you? Anyway, I think he’s fine. He says the city is doing well. Money is better and the elves are happier.”

The man snorted, and turned away from me. “Do you have any idea how much longer this weapons-rest will last? I cannot receive or send letters. The world could be burning out there and I wouldn’t know it.”

I frowned, surprising myself that I actually felt sorry for the angry bear. “No. I don’t know when it will end. We go south tomorrow, to—to look for something…. Then I will go to Markarth.”

“Markarth?” Galmar turned to me, surprised. He strode toward me and clasped my upper arms. “Yes! You will help, then?” The man practically shook me.

“Yes, Galmar, I’ll help.”

Galmar grinned, and laughed with a flourish.

. . . . . .

“How are you feeling?”

Olfina was heavy in her pregnancy, only a month or so away from popping. Though she was exhausted and it showed, she never stopped helping those of us who she and Jon had welcomed into their home.

“Oh, I’m fine,” she lied.

She had grasped my hands and pressed my palms to her belly. I felt the life her inside move, and I felt its presence. His presence. She was carrying a boy. A healthy boy. How I knew that was beyond my understanding. I shouldn’t have known. Perhaps if I had used that Shout which reveals life and knowledge about living things around me, knowing would have made sense. But, no; I just knew.

“Are you going to move into Stenvar’s house in Dragon Bridge?” I asked her. She and Jon were doing fine financially, but only because Stenvar kept sending them money and supplies. Now that the tenants in the house were passed, Stenvar had been trying to decide what to do with the family property.

Olfina stepped back and shook her head. “It’s too far from Solitude. Jon needs to be at the college, and I don’t want to be away from him anymore. I told Stenvar not to sell the house, though. Instead he’s going to have the rent sent to us.”

“Well, that’s good. Did you find work?”

“I fix clothing for some people, sometimes for this shop not far from home. Not much else I can do right now. Maybe once this one comes I’ll be less tired.” She smoothed her palms down her simple dress and stared at her roundness before looking back to me. “Will you come back this way? When everything is finished down south?”

I half-frowned, and told the truth. “I don’t know. We go to Markarth after we go to Morthal. Then… then, I think I need to go to Falkreath before I go to Whiterun and then Windhelm.”

“I suppose Solitude is far out of your way, then,” she realized, clearly disappointed.

I offered her an apologetic smile. “I will send Stenvar back north, though, hmm? After Morthal. He’s done enough for me, and you need family right now.”

Olfina nodded, and though sad, she was smiling.

. . . . . .

The Summoning Stones were located northwest of Morthal within the depth of its northern swamp. A swamp in the summer. Again. _Fantastic_. The shortcut required a trip across the bay south of Solitude, easily accomplished by paying a ferryman at the Solitude Docks. Our horses and supplies were able to come with us; avoiding traveling back through Dragon Bridge saved us about three days.

After reaching the northern edge of the swampland, it took us less than a day’s ride to reach the area in which Elodie knew the Stones to be. Not wanting to engage yet whatever lay ahead, we made camp well out of sight from our destination. As most of the crew set up tents and a fire pit, Athis, Selina, and myself scouted out the area around camp, looking for threats as well as dinner. We had packed enough food for two days, but we couldn’t be sure how long we would be outside of a town. The suggestion to attempt to find game of some sort was supported unanimously.

Jenassa, despite no longer being able to hold a bow, probably would have been with us on the hunt had she not stayed in Solitude. Brelyna asked her to stay with Olfina and Jon, just for a little while longer. It took a lot of begging and crying from Brelyna for the stubborn warrior-huntress to acquiesce. The fact that Jon had hinted that he wanted to write down her ‘tale’ didn’t help, surely.

Though I didn’t explain this to anyone, I asked to come along with Athis and Selina for only one reason – to test my dragon sense. Sensing, _knowing_ Olfina’s unborn son through some sort osmosis was a new talent, and I needed to find out if said talent had other functions. Without the use of _laas_ , without even thinking _laas yah nir_ I searched for deer, rabbit, mice, anything that might have been foraging around us, and anything that might have been hunting us. The moon was nearly full and the sky clear, and though the sparsely forested, half-dead, swampy landscape was dark, I could still see.

The two agreed to let me accompany them so long as I didn’t wear my glowing armor. The request made sense. I had learned the basics of hunting from my days in Riverwood, spending time with Faendal.

 _Faendal_. I hadn’t thought about my archer friend, my first elf friend, in a long time. He and Camilla, the Riverwood shop owner’s sister, had left before the village was burnt to the ground. I had no idea where they were, but I hoped they were happy, and safe.

My thoughts were interrupted when Athis stopped short, jutting a hand out to his side, signaling us to stop walking. Slowly, the Dunmer reached for his bow. I tried to understand what he had seen, or heard.

 _Concentrate_. All I could hear was the wind rustling the trees. _Concentrate_. I closed my eyes.

 _Left!_ I turned, but my eyes remained closed. I heard the tell-tale sounds of an arrow being loosed and finding its fleshy target. Even before the short-lived, terrified bleat told my brain the target had been a deer, I knew. A doe. A doe that had two fawns trailing her.

I opened my eyes to see my companions moving toward tonight’s dinner.

“Nice one, Athis,” Selina lauded, “right through the breath-sack. She’s skinny, though.”

“Where are the babies?” I asked, following them.

“Babies?” Athis turned, confused.

“The young deer. She had two. Look.” I pointed to her belly where pronounced, swollen udders peeked through her fur.

I stood up to look around, to _feel_ around, but sensed nothing. They must have run off.

“Mm. No matter.” Athis crouched before the animal to begin dressing it. “It’s high summer. They’ve started eating on their own, by now.” The elf ran a hand over the doe’s head and left ear and murmured something to himself, or to the deer.

“How did you know?” Selina asked me. She then leaned in and, whispering, added, “I knew too.” She tapped her nose, and smirked.

I returned the expression. “Dragon sense.”

“Which explains everything, of course,” I heard Athis remark.

Selina smiled. “I’m going to help him.” She removed her dagger from its sheath and knelt by the deer across from Athis.

“I’m….” I gazed down at the doe. The sudden, strong scent of blood hit me like a slap to the face. I wasn’t a hunter, not at all. I didn’t have the stomach for it. Vampires? Fine. Zombies and draugr? Not fine, but at least I didn’t mind killing them. I had only skinned one deer with Faendal years ago, which basically meant Faendal did the dirty work and I did a lot of half-watching and feeling ill. I turned away from the doe. “I’m going to walk around a bit.”

“Don’t go far,” Selina requested. “We’re just going to remove the waste.”

I didn’t intend to go far, I just wanted to get away from the scent of blood. I would still help carry the deer back to camp.

I was dressed in my hide underarmor – leggings and a tunic – as well as a spare pair of shoes. The midges were only able to access the capillaries of my neck, face, and hands, which was inevitably where I was blessed with several more bites. Healing magic helped soothe the intense initial itch, but the sensation never fully went away until the day after the bite.

The itching was beginning to take away whatever concentration I had managed before. I made the decision to return to Selina and Athis, hoping the bugs would find them instead of me, or at least that we could share the burden.

A whisper stopped me in my tracks.

No, not a whisper. There was no one around me. I looked around, up, forward and back, and I realized I had walked in the wrong direction. The midges and scratching had distracted me.

“Some dragon sense you are,” I chided my underdeveloped talent.

The whisper returned. It was a sound rather than a word.

“ _Fuck it_.” I needed my senses going at full strength. I quickly whispered, “ _Laas yah nir_ ,” and was shocked by what I saw.

A solid, expansive mass of red glowed before me, some small distance away. I froze, thankfully hidden by the night, and by a collection of dead trees. The mass was wider than it was tall, but much too wide to be an animal. The initial shock dissipated, and the mass let itself be known.

Hundreds of undead. Hundreds. _Hundreds_. What had seemed like a small army inside Meridia’s temple was nothing compared to this. I had unwittingly stumbled closed to the Summoning Stones, where swarms of submissive specters stood sentinel over sinister schemes.

I squeezed my eyes shut and shook Mora out of my head before looking back toward the mass. The red glow faded, and I saw a soft blue light behind clumped silhouettes. Nothing ahead moved, but they were certainly alive. Unalive.

The thought that I might have been detected briefly crossed my mind until I remembered reading the Thalmor’s notes about me, that magic could not be used to track me. That was Akatosh’s doing – I was sure of it. I was about to leave when something stopped me. I looked back to the mass and, curious, cast the spell that would show me _alive_ , not dead or undead things.

I saw the creature in no time. Standing tall and glowing purple, something, someone was there amongst the undead. Something alive.

The Summoner. The caller and controller of the undead. The queen of necromancers. It had to be her.

I expected myself to be terrified. What I was, however, was enraged.

Had I no sense at all I would have stormed ahead and shot every last zombie to hell before Shouting the necromancer into Oblivion. Thankfully, I knew better. I also knew that we were camped within a mile of these stones, and more than likely, my companions had all been detected.

I sped-walked back to Selina and Athis.

 

“We can’t attack tonight,” Stenvar protested, shaking his head. “This isn’t some nighttime ambush of outlaws. This is gonna be a fuckin’ battle.” His left gauntlet thudded to the ground, followed by his right. “Night is not our friend right now, not to mention I’m fuckin’ tired.”

“I have to agree with the _jihatt_ ,” Fa’nir spoke up. “J’zargo and myself see better at night, true, but we are just two. If it helps you sleep tonight,” he addressed me, “I will offer to remain awake until dawn. In the morning, I will make myself unseen, and attack from the shadows.”

I frowned. “I don’t want you to be tired tomorrow, Fa’nir.”

The Khajiit huffed. “Better me than you and your warrior friends, yes? An unseen target is a target at rest. I will be fine.”

“Fa’nir will be fine,” J’zargo confirmed, stepping up beside his partner. “He is better than that dirty young Nord at remaining unseen, unknown.” J’zargo’s cattish brow creased in a look of disgust at remembering the little shit called Onmund.

I looked around me to the others; they all looked full of fresh venison, and ready for sleep. I then looked to Elodie. The woman always seemed to know more than she ever revealed, and I figured if she knew the world would end tonight lest we find the Eye of Magnus, she would let me know. Probably. She remained silent, however.

I gave in. “Alright. Sleep tonight. I don’t know what the morning will bring. I don’t know what kind of weapons or magic we will cross. I don’t know what kind of undead surround the stones. They might have no mind of their own or they might be warriors. They might be vampires, or something else. I could not sense this. Please, be prepared for anything. Join Fa’nir in guarding at night as you wish, but sleep if you can.” I smacked my neck and peeled my hand away, revealing a dead midge. “I’m going inside my tent.”

. . . . . .

I saw them finally, the mass of undead. They carried weapons and shields, some of them. Others were unarmed, but I worried that meant they were mages. Undead mages. Hovering over the center of the mass were three lumbering, massive stones. The hoard had trampled any tree or bush that surrounded the area, evident from several nearby bent-over trunks. Behind the mass still glowed something blue. It reminded me of the glass platform we have found in Saarthal. It emanated a similar sensation.

“Do you see that?” I asked Elodie, who stood to my right.

“I see it, Deborah. I hear it, too.”

“The humming,” I assumed.

“Yes. It has a similar energy to that thing in Saarthal.” Her lips pressed together, and she swallowed.

“The Summoner summoned zombies to stand guard here,” I related to her what Mora had told me, “to guard the area while elves did something very bad.”

“The Thalmor?” Ingjard asked quietly from my left. “Or perhaps necromancers.”

“Thalmor,” I confirmed. Mora had told me as much. “The Thalmor, or, well, some Thalmor, are using portals for… well, bad things. Ending the world, at the very worst.”

Elodie backed away from the tall, dead brush we had been hiding behind. Ingjard and I followed. “They know we are here,” the half-elf in red revealed.

“Not surprising,” Brelyna replied.

“I should start the attack,” Darius suggested. “Shock the undead, unsettle the necromancer.”

“I will start the attack,” Elodie declared. “Mass paralysis. We do not want them scattered everywhere – in one area, that is easiest to attack.”

“Agreed,” J’zargo and Brelyna noted simultaneously.

“Alright,” Darius relented. “I will ward the mages and archers against attacks, as before, then.”

“Good.” I then turned to Athis. “Shield or bow for you?”

“Shield. I think I should stay with Darius if he’s going to be protecting everyone with wards. Magic can’t last forever.”

“I’ll be his shield, Athis,” Njada offered, “and yours, too. You use your bow. There are too many creatures for just one archer.” The Nord, decked in fresh warpaint, muttered something about wishing someone else was with us.

“I can distract them with a Flame Atronach,” Brelyna offered. “The undead burn easily, particularly draugrs… but I don’t think those are draugrs.”

“J’zargo will terrify them,” he added, flashing his teeth. “Make them fight one another while they burn.”

“A Frost Atronach will add to the confusion,” Elodie added. “And, if I can, I will claim control over the dead, will them to fight for us, not against us. But do not rely on this; the Summoner likely carries pieces of the enslaved, linking them to her.”

I grimaced, having forgotten that Elodie was a Conjuration magic scholar, meaning she, too, was a necromancer. The good kind of necromancer, but still a necromancer.

“Then I suppose Sharash and I can front the attack,” Stenvar suggested.

The orc nodded. “Sounds good to me. And I can heal us while the others are busy, if needed.”

I scanned the group, satisfied. Though Fa’nir was not with us, visible, I knew he was nearby. “Remember what to do if the necromancer wards herself or the undead from attacks. Now, does everyone have a healing potion? And stamina and magic, as you need them?” No one spoke up that they did not have their needed potions. We were ready.

“Alright, everyone. Fight well.” I turned, but stopped and added, “Aim for their heads.”

Ingjard and I stood by Elodie as she readied herself to cast a massive paralysis spell. Her casting would be Stenvar and Sharash’s signal to attack.

The paralysis magic worked like a rune when cast from afar, but could also be cast locally, paralyzing anyone who stood within its area of effect, again, like rune spells. I had already thought of which Shouts to use initially, and knew I would have to decide on the rest as the battle went on.

Elodie and I stood side by side. Ingjard was behind me, and Darius, the other mages, Selina and Athis, and Njada were behind Ingjard. Stenvar and Sharash stood ahead of Elodie and me, weapons readied.

I looked to Elodie, sharing a soft, knowing look. Neither of us was scared. Both of us were ready. Both of us were _made_ for this moment. My gaze lowered to Elodie’s hands where a glow of green formed between her raised palms. She began to chant softly in elvish, words I couldn’t understand. The green glow became brighter, and I turned forward to watch the clustered army of the risen dead.

They were people, the undead, people of all races. Humans, Khajiit, elves, even orcs and Argonians. Those without weapons did not appear to be mages but instead normal folk. I recognized the armor of Stormcloaks and Imperials amongst the farmers and priests – _priests._ Their faces, when they still had flesh to form them, were angry. They snarled. They gnashed their teeth. Some of them even screamed at us.

I sensed no ward against them, though surely there was one. Whatever the necromancer was guarding, whatever that humming blue glow was, surely it was worth every measure of defense to protect. Unless, of course, the undead was only the first wall of defense. The wards, perhaps, stood behind them. The blue, glowing light behind them might have been a strong ward.

Elodie’s voice rose in volume. Her hands were pushed outward, the green orb between her palms too bright to look at. I looked forward again, and caught Stenvar’s gaze. He smiled.

“ _A var nagaisya as balpar mino!_ ”

Elodie had screamed the elven spell. Green light shot forth from her hands, landing in the center-front of the mass of undead. Either there was no ward, or Elodie had broken through it. The rune was triggered and the magic backlit the entire dark mass in a halo of green. Stenvar and Sharash cried out in their burst forward. Fire magic shot forth from Brelyna and her Flame Atronach. Thundering stomps to my right signaled the approach of Elodie’s lumbering Frost Atronach, a behemoth compared to the dainty fire creature. Spells of various colors shot forth toward the undead, and a confused moaning outcry from the zombies bombarded my ears.

“ _Wuld nah kest!_ ” The Shout brought me near to Sharash’s side. Though my armor protected me, Stoneflesh encased the rest of me in a nearly impenetrable, contouring shield.

“ _Zun haal vii!_ ” Swords, shields, staves and other weapons dropped and even dissolved into ash upon contact with my power.

“ _Iiz slen nus!_ ” Several paralyzed undead to my left turned immediately into ugly ice sculptures just as Stenvar’s greatsword and Sharash’s spiked mace smashed into them, shattering frozen flesh.

“ _Yol toor shul!_ ” A handful of undead to my right ignited into flames; the fire spread to their neighbors.

“ _A var nagaisya as balpar mino!_ ” Elodie cast the rune again, cementing the undead to their places. She had caught up to us, and I glimpsed her purple ghost-sword in her right hand.

“Don’t tire yourself!” I shouted at the mage.

“Same to you!” she bit back. “Use the sword!” Elodie then flew forward, conjured sword raised, battle cry piercing the air.

 _Dawnbreaker_. I gripped the handle at my left hip and pulled. The white gem flashed and runes fluttered awake as I raised the weapon.

_It’s time._

Scowling back at the awaiting undead, I cast Stoneflesh once more upon me and set forth, ward spell readied with my left hand.

“ _Tiid!_ ” Time slowed as Dawnbreaker met her first paralyzed zombie, shoving her tip into its brain. The creature was immediately set aflame. Again. Again. Again. I didn’t bother counting. I kept moving along to the right, taking out as many zombies as I could. Dawnbreaker’s blade had become sticky black but her light still shined bright. As I pulled her out of another zombie’s eye socket, a black-purple light, haloed by yellow-white, shot out from its body with a dull sonic boom. It struck the surrounding zombies like a punch to the face, and startled me as well.

Time around me flowed normally again. Those undead that had become unparalyzed began to squirm and cower after being hit by the purple magic. Unfazed, I sliced into more of them, sending them to their deaths in Meridia’s blessed flames. Another flash exploded from a zombie’s body. The light had no effect on me at all. More flames. Another flash. The zombies hit by the burst of magic fled. The effect was exactly the same as that of Stenvar’s sword and J’zargo’s magic. Dawnbreaker claimed their unnatural lives.

To my right, victorious laughter sounded from Ingjard and Sharash. Stenvar shouted vulgar curses at the creatures. Brelyna, behind me, shouted cheerfully in a language unknown to me. I hung back, aiming to join the other mages for a rest. Ingjard, as always, followed.

Out of nowhere, Fa’nir appeared to my right, all toothy smiles. His fur was splattered with darkness, the same half-dried blood that stained Dawnbreaker and my own armor. “Going well, Daughter of Alkosh?” he asked me.

“What?”

“I counted fifteen for you – twenty-seven for me.” Fa’nir hissed his final words and flashed his bloodied, ungloved claws before disappearing. The Khajiit was definitely highly skilled when it came to invisibility magic; I had not noticed nor sensed him at all while fighting.

I turned to Ingjard. “Ready for more?”

The redhead laughed. “Always.”

We sprinted forth, joining again Sharash and Stenvar. Dawnbreaker pierced the flesh of more undead, sending fire and purple flame about the mass, turning the zombies from us.

“ _Faas ru maar!_ ” The Shout, successful, set some of the undead upon each other, rather than only us.

“ _Zun haal viik!_ ” Some of their weapons were lost, again. The disarmed zombies attacking other zombies clawed and pulled and bit and kicked.

One half-faced undead woman advanced upon me with a broken sword. I made to kick her in the abdomen, but a mass of fur leapt before me, pinning the zombie to the ground. A slash of claws to the undead woman’s throat rendered her dead, and Fa’nir once again disappeared.

I swung Dawnbreaker in an arc in front of me, slashing the bellies of three other zombies. I forced myself not to look down after I glimpsed what must have been loosed, grey entrails. Eyes up, I never stopped attacking. Flames covered their disgusting forms. Squealing replaced nasty, violent cries. Purple flames encompassed them, putting the fear of Meridia into their undead souls.

I cast a ward in front of myself and Ingjard.

“Have you seen the necromancer!?” I asked her.

“No!”

Frustrated, I slowed time briefly once more to examine the scene.

“Deb, my fucking ears!” Ingjard cried.

I flashed her an apologetic look before I cast magic that showed me living beings. Sure enough, to the center of a still-dense mass of zombies stood a lone purple figure. I found Elodie’s red, fluttering armor and watched her spin and kill. Slowly, we were carving our way to the necromancer, but I worried this was not good enough.

I turned back to Ingjard. “Wait here!”

Another Shout sent me to the side of Elodie, startling the mage. I slashed at the undead attackers, and Dawnbreaker’s magic ignited, casting those near us into a state of fear and panic. I tugged at Elodie’s sleeve, and we fell back.

“She’s still there, in the center of it all!”

Elodie nodded, and peered to her side. “She’s too powerful! I cannot take control over her slaves.”

“Can we end this without ending her first!?”

The half-elf shot me knowing a look, and let her conjured sword fade. She began to say something, but a loud noise from the sky ripped my attention from her.

Nothing. Nothing was there. I looked around us on the ground, but saw nothing. I turned back to Elodie who was completely confused by my actions, and as I was about to explain myself, I felt him.

The incoming rush of wind was my confirmation. An enormous expanse of red flew low above us, shuddering the land with his greeting. He swerved, turned, rose and swerved again before he flew past the mass of undead and screamed down fire upon them. His flames shamed my own, diminishing my Shout to a lit matchstick.

It was my guardian dragon, the same one I had been aided by south of Dragon Bridge. I was sure of it.

I suddenly realized the proximity to the dragonfire that some of our companions had been in. I rushed to my left, nearly crashing into Ingjard. Stenvar and Sharash were behind her, unscathed.

“Is that him?” Stenvar asked, gasping. “The one from Dragon Bridge?”

I nodded, and watched again as the undead mass was set aflame. Several zombies shambled out of the line of fire, headed straight for us and Darius’s group. Njada, Selina, and the mages took care of themselves while Stenvar slashed at and ended our attackers.

Sharash sputtered in disbelief. “You have a _dragon_ protecting you!?”

I nodded again looked back to my right to search for Elodie, but she had gone. If we were lucky, the necromancer had been caught in the flood of dragonfire.

A flash of green expanding into a circle told me where Elodie had gone. She was in the middle of the undead mass, in the middle of the fire zone, and had cast a paralysis rune directly beneath her.

“Elodie!!!” I screamed for my friend, for her to get out of there, but the din around us was heavy and I doubted that she had heard me. I dashed forward, Dawnbreaker held low to my side. I heard Ingjard’s steady breaths behind me.

Fa’nir shed his invisibility to appear beside me; he had been running on all fours towards me from the direction of the undead. He leapt to his hind feet.

“Elodie fast-traveled to the side of the necromancer,” he related. “She held them in green light and spoke angry words to this Summoner. She stands within the rune but is not held by it.”

We clashed with several zombies, one of which had no arms, and took them down easily. Fa’nir darted ahead of us and jumped an undead Argonian, dragging the long claws of each paw-hand across the scaly neck several times, eventually severing the spinal cord. I drove Dawnbreaker deep into the skull of an undead Dunmer who looked disturbingly like Savos Aren; a chill ran up my spine.

The dragon swerved above, roaring but not attacking. Perhaps he understood what was happening below. Through the undead throng, I glimpsed red and gold, and knew Elodie was still there.

“I’m going in!” I shouted to Ingjard, and Fa’nir too, I supposed.

“Deb, no!” my bodyguard protested.

I pushed forward, slashing any zombie that dared approach. “She can’t take The Summoner alone!”

“You don’t know that! She seemed to think she could!”

“Allow me.” Fa’nir disappeared again, and by the movement of the undead ahead of us I knew he was headed straight for the center of them all, towards Elodie. From behind the zombies the soft blue light still glowed, still hummed.

Over the clamor of triumphs and death-throes, I could just make out what sounded like Elodie’s voice, screaming and shouting in elvish. The woman had become, or perhaps always had been, fluent in the ancient, magic-laden language. Ingjard and I slashed through the undead, sending zombies fleeing from Dawnbreaker, from me. My instincts to use more Shouts were suppressed by the knowledge that somewhere nearby were others, fighting amongst the thick crowd of undead. Any attack sent to my left or right could have meant an attack on my friends. I resorted to my sword, and my magic, instead.

Lightning was not very useful against the undead; I learned that from my experience at Saarthal. My fire magic was not very strong, but it was something, and casting small fireballs from my left hand gave my right arm a rest. Ingjard wailed upon attacking zombies, smashing faces with her shield and severing limbs and heads with her sword. I would have loved to see her use her warhammer.

The glow of Elodie’s magic and the blue light behind her shone brighter. We were getting closer. I realized too late, however, that moving inward meant surrounding ourselves with an angry, undead mob.

“ _Tiid!_ ” I slowed time around me and Ingjard, killing as many zombies as I could along the way. The slow-motion effect of Dawnbreaker was breathtaking. The purple light fluttered outward from the area of impact, spreading in a circle, and then dissipated like a firework in a plume of purple vapor-like flames. The bodies of the undead, after coming into contact with the magic of the sword, shimmered purple-white before running for their un-lives.

The effect of my Shout ended just before we reached Elodie. The mage had her hands raised high, continuing to shout in elvish as she cast incantations unknown to me. Before her stood a tall, hooded figure, frozen by Elodie’s magic, shimmering green. Though The Summoner was paralyzed, the zombies still attacked. The spell would likely only be disupted by her death, and maybe not even then; I wondered what Elodie was waiting for. As we approached Elodie’s side, Fa’nir appeared. He must have recognized the hooded figure as the singular threat, because he spared no time in leaping, claws extended, at the paralyzed necromancer.  The blue-grey robes that donned The Summoner’s frail form were shredded as Fa’nir dug deep.

With a shock of white lightning magic, Fa’nir was flung backwards. I stopped short, and thrust my arm to my side in front of Ingjard. My eyes followed Fa’nir and I watched in horror as his body flew directly onto an undead warrior’s out-thrust sword.

I swallowed my screams and ran to the Khajiit, quickly dispatching the zombie near him without a second thought. As I knelt before Fa’nir, Ingjard fought over and around me.

His mouth was agape and eyes unmoving. Fa’nir was gone. The smell of his electrocuted fur finally hit my nose, and I backed away. Clenching my fists, I apologized to my fallen mage friend, but I couldn’t dwell on his death. More undead people closed in on us. I had had enough, and cast a ward orb around me and my bodyguard.

“Is he…?” Ingjard’s eyes were calm, but her breaths were ragged. She needed the rest my ward allowed.

“Yeah,” I confirmed, frowning. “He’s dead.”

Elodie had ignored everything happening around us, continuing her incantations. I wondered if the necromancer had cast the lightning magic, or if Elodie had. The Summoner was paralyzed, but did that mean her magic was stilled, too? Blood flowed from gaping, potentially lethal wounds inflicted by Fa’nir, but Elodie did not finish the job. If the necromancer could have still used her magic, she would have likely healed herself, or perhaps teleported out of this place. Hadn’t Elodie said that The Summoner could teleport?

The dragon, overhead, roared again but soared higher, staying out of the fray.

“Elodie! What are you doing!?” I stepped up to the chanting woman, trying to get her attention while maintaining the ward orb around us. Confused zombies kept crashing into the magic wall, trying repeatedly to attack us.

Ingjard growled in frustration. “Elodie! Kill her _now_!”

Another blast of white light nearly blinded me. I flinched and looked away briefly, turning back just in time to watch Elodie press a dagger to The Summoner’s throat. She gritted her teeth. The whites of her eyes flashed. More elven words were muttered, but I only made out the last few, as her enunciation became deliberate.

 _“A racuvar va canohaelia av bala!”_ Elodie growled the foreign words into the paralyzed necromancer’s ear just as another flash hurt my eyes. Four yellow-robed figures materialized around her with outstretched arms only to disappear immediately, taking Elodie and the necromancer along with them.

In an instant, the battleground fell silent. The dragon had gone. Only the dull thumps of unpowered undead falling to the ground simultaneously broke the sudden stillness. Ingjard, splattered in the dark blood of the accursed dead, froze in place, panting, sword arm up. Her fist was still clenched onto the rags of an undead woman. Realizing the rotting creature she held was no longer a threat, she released her grip and backed away, lowering her sword and fetching her shield.

I took in the rest of the scene. From far away I noted the standing forms of Stenvar and Sharash. Behind us were all the others, unharmed. Brelyna’s Flame Atronach twirled in idleness before vanishing in a puff of black smoke.

“ _Dar’krin?_ ” J’zargo had spoken. His sword, which he had resorted to using, dropped to the ground. He ran toward Fa’nir’s body with impressive speed considering the weight of his armor.

“ _Dar’krin!”_ The Khajiit dropped to his knees at the side of his lover. His paws trembled over Fa’nir’s head and midsection. “ _Rabi Jo’Dar. Thjiz, jajo va._ ” His already soft voice trembled. I hadn’t realized it before, though I should have – J’zargo and Fa’nir were as much in love with each other as they were with Azijjan.My stomach knotted.

“ _Jaji pur rotok._ ” J’zargo continued in what must have been the language of their people. “ _Ahzirr iit khaj ashlik. Ahzirr va ja’epako._ ” He coughed. “ _Tohei, ajo-Dar’krin.”_

J’zargo stood, but didn’t take his eyes off of Fa’nir. When he finally spoke, all he said was, “J’zargo needs stones. Many stones.”

Looking around, I caught the gazes of the others. Everyone was mostly unscathed, though Sharash and Stenvar were covered in more bright, living-being blood than I cared to see. Sharash was a shaman, though, and could heal. I was sure she had taken care of their injuries.

“Stones,” I repeated after J’zargo. “We can help you.”

 

The cairn we had built on top of Fa’nir was incomplete, with holes remaining between stones. There were no more rocks nearby to be found, however. It would have to do. J’zargo said a few more words in the language of the Khajiit before he turned to me. His feline eyes met mine. I searched for sadness in his gaze, but found none. I wondered if it was harder to read expressions on Khajiit, because I knew the man was hurting.

“J’zargo will return to the College before visiting Azijjan in Riften. She must know about Fa’nir. J’zargo will… will stay with her, for a while.”

“J’zargo, I’m—” My words halted, and I frowned. “I’m sorry. It was an accident. I couldn’t—“

He held out his hand. “ _Fusozay_. J’zargo knows. Fa’nir was always too brave. He killed many, today.” The whiskers on J’zargo’s muzzle twitched in a hidden smile. “J’zargo counted. Warm sands, _Ri’Jo_. Warm sands.”

With that, the only thing close to a Khajiit friend I had walked away, heading east.

I turned to the others, concerned about Stenvar and Sharash. “Are you two alright?”

“Yeah, just a scratch,” Stenvar claimed. “Nothin’ this one’s magic didn’t fix.”

I looked to the rest of them. “Is everyone alright?”

“We’re alright, Deborah.” Brelyna had answered for everyone. She had been standing alongside Darius over by the area where The Summoner had been standing, right in front of the large blue, glowing, humming… thing. I walked up to them and looked down. What I hadn’t been able to fully see before was now clear – radiant, watery swirls of magic. It was not a ward.

“It’s a portal,” I breathed, crouching down to get a closer look.

“How can you know?” Brelyna asked me.

“I just...,” my fingertips grazed the flat, circular, carved stone that lay beneath the portal, “I just know.”

Stenvar joined in the examination, taking a knee beside me and feeling the stone as I had. “Do you think…?” He turned to me, question unfinished.

I searched his eyes, and found his meaning. He wondered if this portal was like _my_ portal. He wondered if I was face-to-face with my home world.

“I don’t know.” And I didn’t know. I saw nothing in the portal, only the reflection of our sky against the viscous liquid.

Brelyna made soft, unsettled sounds. “Are you... are you going inside that?”

“I don’t know, Brey.” I stood, and Stenvar followed. “But I think I have to.”

“Maybe that’s where Elodie went,” Ingjard noted.

I turned to my bodyguard. Normally I would have had to put on a brave face, but today, despite all that had already happened, today was different. I was ready.

“Burn the dead,” I asked of her, and let myself fall into the roiling glimmer.

 

The cold. The cold hit me with a gust of wind carrying ice crystals and misery. I was in an arctic wasteland, and my face already felt numb. I pulled the enchanted hood over my head, and thanked the gods that I had long sleeves and leggings and gloves.

The sky was a light grey overcast. In several directions were distant mountains and hills, but the rest of the land appeared flat. Nothing at all was alive here, and I wondered if I was in Antarctica. Snow-laden wind prevented seeing too far into the distance. I quickly became disoriented. Everything looked the same.

Thankfully, I knew exactly where to go.

I marched on to my right to what called to me – another portal.

I hadn’t expected to be followed.

“Deb, wait!” Stenvar called out before he and Ingjard trotted up to me.

“St—what the fuck are you doing!?” I hollered. “You did not know what would happen to you going through a portal!”

“Nor you!” Ingjard bit back. “If you think I’m going to let you crawl into a portal without me then you haven’t been paying attention.”

Even through the blizzard, I could see Stenvar’s wry smile. I stared at my friends for a moment before relaxing. “It’s fucking cold here!” I had to shout to hear myself. “I don’t know where we are!”

Stenvar looked around a bit, and rubbed his bare forearms. “I think this is Atmora.”

“What!?” I cried.

“Atmora! It’s exactly as it was described to me. Someone sailed near there not long ago, and this’s what he saw.”

I looked around a bit more, but the cold was becoming too much. “Alright, I’m going this way. Come on.”

Soon enough, we came to a snow-covered looming boulder in the shape of a vulva. At its center was a dark, shimmering veil. Behind it, we were protected from the wind, somewhat. Stenvar leaned in for a closer look, and I did the same. At first glance there was nothing but a strangely-moving crevice between two big rocks, but the longer I stared into the portal, the more things I saw in the glow.

“Trees?” Stenvar asked anyone.

Indeed, trees. The vision was confusing, as no trees, nor bush or even a branch was anywhere to be seen where we were.

“That is not a reflection,” Ingjard surmised.

“No,” I confirmed. I stood and faced Ingjard. “That is another time.”

Comprehension took several moments. “Another time?”

“Don’t touch it, Stenvar.” The sellsword turned to be before lowering his outstretched hand.

I hugged my body, doing my best to conserve heat.

“I understand it, now,” I muttered. “Elodie was asked to find it, but they never asked her to _retrieve_ it. They needed someone not only… unaffected by time, as Elodie might be, but, also…. They needed someone unaffected by wards.”

“Deborah.” Stenvar’s voice was soft. I found my friend frowning.

“Only I can go through, Stenvar.”

Stunned, mouth agape, Ingjard protested. “No, Deb. Of course you can’t be the only one. Someone else must have before we came! You saw us, we just—“

“Not this time, Ingjard.” I held up my hand.

“But…,” Ingjard didn’t like the prospect of not following me, not protecting me, and apparently neither did Stenvar. “Why? What is different now?”

“Wards. The other portal was different. This one—can you not feel it?—it travels backwards in time and is heavily warded! The ward that the Thalmor, necromancers… the ward they placed upon this portal harms anyone but those protected with the same spell. I can _feel_ it. They protected themselves, somehow. I think The Summoner created the ward over this portal, and Elodie thinks she might have had Psijic powers, which… I don’t know, I think they have something to do with time. _I can walk through wards,_ Ingjard. Powerful ones.”

Ingjard stared at me more, fighting off tears. “Are you… are you saying that Thalmor, and this Summoner, went through a portal to another time and then… what, made a gate? A wall? And… only you can go through because… why, because you were remade in this world? From another?”

I answered with a calm, “Yes, and I am the Child of Akatosh, protected by the Time God himself. Only I can pass through. I’ve never been more certain about something.”

Ingjard blinked, and blinked again.

“This is what Meridia and Arkay brought you here to do,” Stenvar realized. “This….”

I nodded.

I stepped closed to the portal and dipped my fingers into the glimmer. Pulling back, my fingers were untouched by the sparkling energy, completely unharmed. I looked to my companions, smiling with pride before gazing back down to my fingers again.

A hand fell to my shoulder and another hugged my hip. Stenvar’s. He gave me a look, one of moral support and encouragement, but I could see the other level of emotion hidden deep within his expression. He was terrified. “Don’t go,” his body language pleaded.

I cupped his face in my gloved hands and, smiling warmly, leaned in to kiss his frostbite-scarred cheek. I let my hand flow down to his, and gave it a squeeze before I stood alone at the edge of the portal, gazing at another time’s trees.

Certainty suddenly vanished. I wondered what world lay beyond the glow, if it was this world, or another. Perhaps it was even Earth. I wondered if Thalmor were destroying my home, too.

I wondered if I would die.

And then, I realized _why_ I was afraid. Yrsarald.

Looking back at my friends, I smiled to cover my nerves. “Ingjard,” I turned to her, “if… if I—” I stalled, and found myself completely unable to finish the sentence.

My bodyguard forced a smile, and nodded. “Don’t worry, Deb. I’ll tell him.”

Satisfied, though trembling nonetheless, I turned back to the warded portal. Dawnbreaker in hand, I readied myself to be faced with a group of Thalmor, and stepped into the crevice.

 

More lights.

More blackness.

I closed my eyes against the barrage of silent nothingness.

When the movement stopped, when my body came to a halt, when nothingness was replaced by substance, I finally reopened my eyes. I was on my stomach. Soft grass caressed my cheek, and a gentle breeze caught wisps of my hair that poked out from beneath my hood. The trill of a bird told me I had traveled to somewhere other than the barren Atmora, and that I was also no longer lost somewhere in space, in a wormhole or other such void.

A clamor behind me caught my attention, but before I could turn or stand to see what it was, I felt the icy sting of a blade pressed against my throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _SSssssooooooooo…………………………………_  
>  I really hope that fight scene was okay. They’re never easy to write.  
> I probably just laid out a bunch more questions for everyone. Not sorry…. *grin*. It’s gonna just get crazier after this, though there will be one chapter of “rest” (lol…ahem…) in the middle of the remainder of this book. Only like, 5 chapters to go, now. Something like that.  
> Hold onto your butts. :-)
> 
> Some of the game-oriented canon is bent here, as well as the last chapter, regarding the effect of the Slow Time Shout which I believe in the game only slows time for the Dragonborn, not including people standing near them. I played with that one a little bit. I’m also upping the Dragonborn’s “dragon sense” capabilities somewhat here, which will only increase over time.
> 
>  **Norren**  
>  Kiv = Hut/Shack  
> Sle = sheath/scabbard  
> Methlimonen = Associations
> 
>  **Dovahzul**  
>  Mul qah diiv = Dragon Aspect  
> Laas yah nir = Aura Whisper  
> Wuld nah kest = Whirlwind Sprint  
> Zun haal vii = Disarm  
> Iiz slen nus = Ice Storm  
> Yol toor shul = Fire Breath  
> Tiid = time (part of Slow Time)
> 
> I admit my elvish and Ta’agra is kind of eh but hey what am I gonna do with a limited lexicon other than work around it?
> 
>  **Elvish (Ayleidoon)**  
>  “A var nagaisya as balpar mino!” (I cast your deaths by grip of stone, there!)  
> “A racuvar va canohaelia av bala!” (I cast down the necromancer from power!)
> 
>  **Ta’agra**  
>  Jihatt –sellsword (perjorative)  
> “Dar’krin! Rabi Jo’Dar. Thjiz, jajo va. Jaji pur rotok. Ahzirr iit khaj ashlik. Ahzirr va ja’epako. Iit, Jo-Dar. Tohei, ajo-Dar’krin.” = “Thief-smile! My Wizard-Thief. Foolish, you are. This one will tell (y)our wife. We (will) walk the sand anyhow. We are a young family. Go, wonderful Thief.  
> Fusozay – no worries  
> Ri’Jo – High-Wizard


	40. Stranger in a Familiar Land

The icy blade at my throat told me not to move, not to breathe, and despite my internal screaming I remained still. When I realized I was not going to be killed outright, I tightened my grip on Dawnbreaker and tensed my body, running the options of defensive moves through my mind. ****

A rough voice shouted from above me to my left, but I didn’t understand the words.

Careful as to not let my throat move too much, I breathed, “ _Hvas?_ ”

The angry man gripped my messy bun and pulled back before repositioning the dagger. He repeated his command and barked more words, perhaps elaborating on what I was supposed to be doing.

“Um…” The blade pressed too far, and the flesh of my neck stung. “ _Zeik ki da vita_ ,” I replied, doing my best to keep calm. _I don’t understand you_.

The man with the dagger shouted something else, and more people joined in. I heard women, too. Dagger Guy and I were not alone; this worried me. Making sure not to move my neck, I whispered, “ _Laas_ ,” but saw no red glow, not even from myself. No dragon sense had been activated, either. I had no idea what or who was around me.

I closed my eyes, and breathed in. “ _Tiid!_ ”

The Shout took guts, I admitted to myself after; the dagger nicked my neck again and nerves screamed in protest. _No, this isn’t right._ I opened my eyes and looked around. Nothing had changed.

“ _Feim zii gron!_ ” Dagger Guy pulled on my hair again. He shouldn’t have been able to; I should have been a ghost.

 _Magic._ I willed the energy around me to heat. I willed fire to ignite from my palms. It did not.

“ _Nei…. Nei, nei, nei!”_ I squealed and cried as I squirmed beneath Dagger Guy, whose fist gripped my hair tight again and pulled to the side. He shouted into my left ear and pressed the flat of the dagger to my cheek. I calmed immediately, and thought I understood some of the man’s words after he repeated himself yet again in a quiet, lethal whisper.

Woman. Sword. Kill. Here.

“ _Nei_ ,” I answered in my best soothing, reassuring voice. “ _Zeik ki da skul dripa._ ” _I’m not going to kill you_.

A man behind Dagger Guy chuckled through a few words.

Dagger Guy growled. His weight above me shifted, and the dagger left the vicinity of my face. I sighed in temporary relief and repeated my last comment while Dagger Guy moved quickly above me. “ _Zena, zeik ki da—“_.

Something heavy came down hard on my sword hand, mashing my clenched hand and fingers between layers of leather glove, quicksilver hand guard, the metal of the sword handle, and the cold dirt ground. Several knuckles popped when the joints were pressed too far inward. I yowled and convulsed, thankfully avoiding having my throat slit in the process. Understanding, finally, I dropped my sword and skittered away from Dagger Guy, crying from the weight I was putting on my injured hand. I turned to a seated position and immediately attempted to heal my hand. Nothing. Nothing at all. The initial numbness from the shock of injury had faded fast. It hurt like hell.

Realizing how very vulnerable I now was, I looked up to Dagger Guy and those by him. Surely, the look of sheer desperation translated clear enough.

Staring back at me were a dozen or so Nord men and women in various cuts of metal and leather armor. Dagger Guy, tall and husky with several knots in his dark beard, wore several pieces of jewelry, one of which was a medallion like that I’d seen Ulfric, Yrsarald, Ingjard, and others wear – Talos’s amulet.

 _No, no._ I squinted, focusing as Dagger Guy sheathed his small weapon and laughed heartily while talking to his companions. He turned back toward me, and I was offered another look.

No, this was different. Talos’s symbol was a double-bladed battle axe. Dagger Guy’s amulet was shaped more like an anchor, like an upside-down—

Oh.

_Oh._

Portal. Time. _Portal. Time._

Thor’s hammer.

_Vikings._

“H-holy… shit.” My new companions were confused by the odd sounds. One of them picked up my sword. I thought it would have weighed his hands down as it had Ingjard’s, but the man lifted it with ease. _No magic_.

“Shit. Shit….”

A woman elbowed her way through the crowd, spitting stern words to the people who surrounded me. She leaned forward and asked me something, slowly, gently. She offered a hand, palm up, and nodded to my right hand. She was checking to see if I was all right. I obliged, and she then wrapped my hand in a cold, damp cloth. The icy bandage felt wonderful on my possibly broken fingers, and I thanked her in Norren. Her smile suggested she understood me.

The same man who had picked up Dawnbreaker shouted more words at me, and pointed behind them. I pushed myself to my feet to see what he was talking about, and realized the crowd of Vikings had been standing together in front of the other end of Atmora’s portal. It was hard to see as there were no glowing, swirling lights, but the portal’s energy retained a shimmering effect, much like that which Paarthurnax had called the Time Wound, a patch of strong energy atop the Throat of the World.

Taking in the rest of my surroundings, I finally saw the bodies.

Five, seven… eleven bodies were strewn about the portal, and all were dressed in elven armor or Thalmor robes. One of the men stepped close to me and grabbed my left ear, tugging at it as if to see if it would come off. He grumbled some words to his companions, and I thought I recognized one of them.

 _Alfr_. The word sounded almost identical to the word in Norren. Elf. “No— _nei!_ _Ki alfir!_ Not _alfir!_ ” I pointed to my other ear. _No point!_ my eyes and finger screamed.

The man holding my ear let go and backed off, rejoining his companions in examining the whole of me. The woman who had bandaged my hand clicked her tongue and muttered to herself. She swatted at my hood, apparently dusting it off, as it had been decorated by some dried grass and leaves.

My hand throbbed. It had not been crushed, but something was certainly broken, likely a metacarpal or two, judging from the location of severest pain. I might have suffered a cracked proximal phalanx as well. _This_ pissed me off. I tried to cast a small healing spell for my hand again, but failed. No magic. None at all. No Shouts. Even the runes on my armor failed to glow.

No magic meant no Aetherius. Thor. Vikings. I was on Earth.

I was on _Earth…._

It was dusk, and the light was fading fast. One of the women, holding a torch, walked around the area as she spoke – presumably to me – and I could see more bodies of elves. These people, these maybe-Vikings, had apparently killed them all, and had suspected me of being one of them. Partial relief washed over me until I was reminded of the reason I was there.

“Eye!” I shouted in stressed excitement. “Err, _aug. Aug frotha_.” _Big magical eye of the gods._ “ _Zeik leita par aug se regen_.”

I figured speaking Norren would get me further than any other language. If my theory was right, and I was sure it was given the portals I had just passed through, Norwegian, Icelandic, and all the ancient Scandinavian languages preceding were influenced by Norren, or rather the language of the ancient Nords. Old Norren.

“ _Fróða auga_?” a man asked, chuckling, and then said something else about eyes.

“ _Ja! Aug_ ,” I said as I pointed to my right eye. ” _Mikil aug_.” I made motions to indicate a big round thing. A big fucking eye. Then again, did the object truly look like an eye? I had no idea, and likely neither did these people. I just knew the object was a giant sphere, if Hermaeus Mora’s animated sketch had been accurate.

One of the men exchanged words with his neighbor, and the neighbor nodded. Others agreed with whatever was said. The woman who had given me the cold cloth gently grasped my upper arm and began walking me toward the men. They turned away from me, and led me into a forest.

I began to protest, but a blue light, deep behind dense trees, quieted me. Something was glowing, something like a portal, or perhaps a ward. I thought this impossible due to the fact that nothing else magical worked wherever we were, but the closer I was to the object the more I understood. The light was not a ward, but emanated from a segmented, exploded sphere the size of two stacked Volkswagen Beetles, floating above a stone circle. Surrounding the stone circle and sphere were shrubs, and surrounding the shrubs were trees.

It was what Hermaeus Mora had showed me, for certain. Several more bodies of elves were strewn about the place, preserved by the coldness of the land. Perhaps they hadn’t been dead for very long.

My eyes were fixed on the glow, on the floating Eye that I finally stood before. The metalwork pattern was exactly what I had seen in Saarthal, the base that no doubt had held the sphere in place. Where the Eye was now also had a base, but like the base at the Summoning Stones, it did not glow as the one in Saarthal had. The humming, however, was very much still there, likely emitted from the sphere itself. The Eye spun slowly on the base’s central axis.

“ _Laza!_ ” The shout came from my right. The word was Norren. It meant ‘mage’.

I turned and strained to see who had spoken the word from another world. My new companions allowed me to approach the darkness, and held out a torch for me to see by. I stopped walking when I saw the elf, an Altmer man, sat on the ground and tied to a tree trunk.

“ _Var laza, zeik vita da antlet.”_ The Altmer recognized me. He continued. “ _Da sottekat Bruz se Veltnerath. Eg Ancano. Da ers Deborah. Kir, hjalpa zeik. Sos mathiren fysan zeik dripar!_

 _Help him?_ Ancano. Ancano. My brain searched for the name, why he would have recognized me from the college in Winterhold and why I didn’t— Gasping, I realized who this elf was. “Ancano….”

“ _Zena. Rathgif ti Savos Aren. Da vitas zeik!”_

No, no I didn’t know him, Savos’s ‘advisor’. Spy, more like. I had never met the man, nor seen him at the college. Had he forgotten that he had seen me, yet I didn’t see him? I was certain the man had left the college before we had the chance to be introduced. Why he claimed to know me….

“ _Da erat med Thalmor_ ,” I remarked. “ _Da erat uppstele_.”

“ _Nei, nei, ki uppstele. Rathgif!”_

Lies. All lies. He was a spy. He and the rest of the Thalmor were spying on me. I sorely wished to be able to converse with the Northmen around me, to ask what this man had been doing, why he was allowed to live. One of the men walked up to me. He was holding a staff, the end of which looked like it held a tiny version of the Eye of Magnus.

“Oh, god,” I muttered. It was the Staff of Magnus.

“ _Gypta sa zeik!”_ Ancano shouted. He was thrashing and kicking against his bonds, and a Northman wacked him on the head.

The man holding the staff offered it to me, and I grasped it with my left hand. He pointed toward the eye insistently, and then while speaking, made movements with his hands that mimicked a flower blooming. I didn’t understand his words, but I thought understood his gestures. The Eye had opened with the help of the Staff.

Open eye, pointed finger.

Reality became perfectly clear. The Staff opened the Eye. If it opened the Eye, then it should also _close_ the Eye. Somehow, I was meant to close the Eye. Save the world. Or, perhaps, Elodie was supposed to do that. Elodie, however, was not here.

I considered moving the Eye, but expanded as it was it would never have fit through the portal I had come through.

I turned to the man who had handed me the Staff. I moved my right, stiffened hand to my upper chest, then over my heart, and then pointed to the Eye with the Staff. I then pointed toward Ancano and several elf bodies before making a slicing motion at my throat. Whether or not my meaning was clear, I couldn’t be sure. Perhaps they thought I was going to kill more elves, or all elves, but I had meant to signify that I would stop the elf invasion, cut off their route. Either way, the man before me grunted and nodded in approval and took a step back from me.

Ignoring Ancano’s continued shouting, I studied the Staff. The fist-sized orb at the top swirled with magic within the glass. Two spikes, curved over the orb, had all the appearance of electrical leads, spaced close enough together that, should electricity pass along each of them, the current would form a bridge over the orb. The remainder of the staff was unremarkable, and I turned my attentions to the Eye.

“ _Megin kiger lein ik mina hanten, ath zeik stothatur med volginen!”_ Ancano spat, and continued his tirade about Nord savages. I didn’t care.

Standing before the Eye, I held the Staff in front of me. When it was pointed toward the open artifact, the Staff’s head began to glow brighter. Something other than blue light flashed from the Eye, demanding my attention. I focused on a panel, and gasped. I stepped forward.

Watching the panel proved difficult, and I had to walk slowly around in a circle as the Eye rotated. In one of the glass panels, I saw movement. People, smoke, and fire. And then, a familiar shape contrasted black against grey smoke. The Empire State Building. The Eye, which could see into the past, present and future, non-pasts, non-presents and non-futures, was showing me my world – _this_ world – in a far distant land and time. I stared at the tiny glass screen, wondering exactly what I was looking at. Then the smoke cleared.

The people in the scene were not running, walking, or moving normally at all. They were lumbering, clumsily, aimlessly, stumbling on objects as well as each other.

“No,” I breathed, disbelieving. “No, no no no….”

I backed away, utterly determined to unsee what I had been shown. Zombies. It must have been zombies. Was I watching New York’s present? Future? Or was I only watching a scene from a zombie movie based in the city?

“No,” I repeated numerous times, completely stunned until another panel flashed and caught my eye as it moved past my line of sight.

It was Stenvar, I was sure of it. No, not Stenvar, Steve, the man from my world, the man in my dream who had looked just like Stenvar. A Scottish man with whom, in the dream, I had two children. And there they were, the children. One boy, one girl. The scene replayed, beginning again with an up-close shot of ‘Steve’s’ face. Another panel showed the ruins of Riverwood. Yet another showed me, Marcurio, and Bird, tangling with each other in drunken passion. Every panel showed something different. Ulfric holding an infant. Jenassa with two arms, sweeping a broom. Ingjard in red armor, accompanied by a dog that resembled a husky. A redheaded elf man I didn’t recognize, holding two infants. Yrsarald, old and grey, solemnly sitting on his throne in Windhelm. Yet another panel played the scene of my and my ex-husband’s wedding, and later shifted to show me, in a hospital, no doubt giving birth to a child, Greg at my side.

“Enough!” I shouted. I had had it with the Eye, of seeing non-pasts and non-futures. This artifact, opened, had caused me to have those odd dreams of Stenvar and Ulfric. I wanted no more of that, no more previews or possibilities, no more teases of different futures that I would never experience.

I thrust the Staff in front of me, orb pointed toward the Eye, and a loud crackle of blue lightning jutted forth. Ancano screamed and begged for me to stop. The Northmen behind me shouted and gasped, no doubt wondering what was happening. Thankfully, none of them attacked me. Why magic worked for the Staff and Eye and not other things I could not know. Only Magnus knew. Perhaps Magnus was here, right now, willing this nonsense to end. Perhaps Magnus was everywhere. I didn’t waste time pondering the other possibilities about Magnus.

The Eye’s panels shifted, and spaces between them constricted and expanded in a steady rhythm. The Staff began to feel heavy in my left hand and I braced it with both, despite the action causing severe pain for my right hand. My fingertips suffered the Staff’s vibrations and began to lose sensation, but I held on. When the Eye’s panels finally tightened, appearing completely locked into place, I stopped, and let the Staff’s end be supported by the ground. I pressed my right hand toward my chest, raising it as best I could above my heart. The fingers were throbbing.

Ancano was cursing at me, at the Northmen, or perhaps at humans in general. “Nord filth” was uttered several times. I walked over to him and crouched down. I set the Staff down, leaning it against the tree, and with my left hand I reached for the old dagger Wuunferth had given to me ages ago. I thrust it toward Acano’s neck.

“ _Hvas ersn grahig in Bromjunaar?”_ I wanted to know what the hell was going on with the Thalmor and Bromjunaar.

The elf laughed. “ _Zeik ki da skul loga. Dripa zeik, gera! Fliri se os synan. Os enklaar furvan tid. Nueh dan skul kvona. Nueh—“_

Useless. _You want me to kill you? Fine._ Having had enough of him and his threats, I slit the elf’s throat, and watched as he bled out. I wiped my dagger on his robe.

When I turned around to face the Northmen, they held back, wary. I approached them, slowly, and then looked back to the darkened Eye. It was finally small enough to fit through a doorway, I realized, such as the doorways that Saarthal had. That was how the Thalmor had removed it from the ruins, and moved it through time. They also likely had the help of The Summoner. I contemplated ways of destroying the Eye and Staff, but remembered that Elodie was supposed to return it to safety, to the hands of the Psijic monks. Looking toward the Northmen, I made what I hoped were discernable hand gestures to convey my need to move the orb to the portal. After several attempts, they finally understood, and it took only one of the larger men to do my bidding. He hardly broke a sweat. He moved the Eye to the portal, but did not push it through. I then asked one of the other men to destroy the base on which the Eye had hovered. Crush it, break it apart, it did not matter so long as it wasn’t whole. It was obviously meant to house the Eye, and if the base was destroyed, the Eye would hopefully never be used in this land, my land, again.

I turned my attention back to the portal. It still shimmered as it had before. I wondered if, upon returning to Nirn, the portal would close. I wondered if the portal had always existed and always would exist. I wondered if I would be able to return to Nirn.

I decided to send the Eye through first, to signal my arrival. I nodded at the Northman and indicated for him to shove the Eye through the portal, a task that for him seemed effortless. Thankfully, the portal did not close, which was a possibility I had feared. I held onto the Staff, however. These artifacts, after all, were important. I was expendable. I could not carry the Eye, but the Staff was manageable in my left hand.

Before I walked myself through the shimmery air, I turned to look at the Earthlings behind me. They watched intently, curious and perhaps still confused at what had just happened. One of the men, older than the rest with striking, frizzy grey-blonde hair and a long, braided beard, stepped forward. He spoke to me, chest puffed and right arm moving about, but all I understood was his name. Sven, or something closer to Svein, followed by what I thought sounded like ‘stone heart’. Svein Steinnhjarta. The words were basically the same in Norren. He handed me Dawnbreaker, and helped me replace it into my scabbard. His hand hovered over my injured one, and he crooned some words. I looked into his eyes and found what looked like sorrow. He was apologizing. The large man then bowed somewhat, and said something that sounded like “ _freyja_ ”, followed by more quiet words.

I was puzzled by his words until he, followed by the rest of the Vikings, knelt before me, and bowed their heads. The memory of Thrynn crying before me, thinking I was Dibella, played in my mind’s eye, and I was at once horrified.

“No! No, no… _nei, nei!_ I’m not…. _Eg ki ‘Freyja’. Nei, nei!_ ” I groaned and looked back to the portal, desiring very much to get back to my friends. Something held me back, though, and I realized what it was.

I was home. Sort of, anyway. I was on Earth, most likely, but I knew I was not _actually_ home. My family would not be born for some one thousand more years. Aside from this depressing realization, I knew that the longer I stayed, the more liable I was to affect the outcome of history. Butterfly effect. I couldn’t know how much damage I had already done, how much the _elves_ had already done by abusing a portal to this land. No, I couldn’t stay; there was simply no point.

I thought that I should perhaps gift Svein and his companions for killing the Thalmor, and for helping me, despite the fact that one of them had severely injured my hand. I thought about the bits of things I had with me, but everything was dear to me. Yrsarald’s ring, Wuunferth’s necklace, my sword, and my armor. And then, I recalled Wuunferth’s rusty iron dagger, which had long since lost its enchantment and was very much replaceable. I reached down, slowly, into the sheath on my boot and pulled out the small weapon. I reached out with the dagger, and Svein offered his palm to receive it.

An owl hooted.

I looked up. The mood had risen. One moon. Its surface was obscured by haze – no, not haze…. I blinked. My vision was a bit blurry. I blinked again, rubbed my eyes, and looked up again. The moon was no longer a sharp white circle in the darkening sky, but instead a big fuzzy glowing ball of cotton. Realizing that my vision had reverted back to its Earth state of not-worth-a-damn, I panicked, and turned back to the crowd of Vikings.

“ _Takk_ ,” I said with a smile, and hurried into the portal before anyone, including myself, could stop me.

. . . . . .

The Eye sat on the ground before the portal. No more wide than my hips, it was quickly becoming buried by blowing snow. I briefly considered using the Staff to roll it toward the other portal, but decided against that.

I set the Staff down on the snow. With my left hand I healed my face, hoping to hell what Doctor Lady had one for my eyes years ago would work again. It did. I blinked several times, urging my eyes to focus again, and then turned my attention to my hand. I gingerly palpated the length of the bruising appendage, searching for any displaced bones. Nothing was out of joint, but the first knuckle of the middle finger stung horribly. I cast concentrated healing magic on the hand, and the sharp pain eventually subsided. A dull throbbing remained, though. I whined, wishing I had been wormholed into the 21st century, and into a pharmacy, preferably. I reminded myself that a healing potion would help mend what magic could not, but I only had magic-regenerating potions in my belt purse.

A flash of light startled me, and I watched as figures materialized. Though they were obscured by snow, I could tell there were five of them, and they were all coming toward me. I immediately dove for the Staff and stood before the Eye, praying to anyone who was listening that I was not about to be set upon by Thalmor. I cast Stoneflesh upon myself, just in case.

As the figures neared, colors became clearer. Deep yellow, with a splash of red, not the black or gleaming gold of Thalmor robes or armor.

Elodie. The white-grey of Atmora’s landscape made for a stark contrast to the fluttering blood-colored fabric of her battlemage armor. I let down my guard and dissipated the magical armor, but still held onto the Staff.

The Psijics and Elodie must have teleported to where I was, where Elodie knew the portal at the Summoning Stones to have led. I wondered if Elodie was now officially one of them. I wondered what that meant for her.

“Deborah,” she called softly, finally standing before me. How she was not cold in such light-weight armor was curious, but I didn’t bother asking about something so trivial.

“Elodie, I’m—you came back. Everything happened so fast, and you were—where did you go? I thought you would come with me through the portal.”

She pushed out her palm toward me. “I could not,” she answered, shaking her head. Her high ponytail swished from side to side. “Only you could. I knew this. You figured this out, too.”

“I… felt it.” I was also feeling cold, and beginning to shiver. “I can’t stay here longer. It’s too damn cold.”

“The Staff,” she ordered, turning her palm up and flicking her fingers toward her. I obliged, having no reason to keep the thing for myself. It was heavy, anyway.

The other monks passed by us and surrounded the Eye. Arms outstretched towards one another, with another flash, they and the Eye were gone. Elodie remained, though.

“Where are they taking it?” I asked her.

“Somewhere safe. You will have to trust in this.”

“And The Summoner? What happened to her?”

“She will be held in the Mage Hall prisons until her trial.”

“She can’t fast-travel out of it?”

Elodie’s cheeks rounded as she smiled rather wryly. “No. Just as I could not pass their ward, here,” she motioned toward the portal to Earth, “she cannot pass ours.”

I nodded. “The portals… will they go away? They should not exist.”

She reached out her free hand and bade me to approach her. She walked toward the portal to the Summoning Stones, and I followed.

“They will fade, with time,” she confirmed. “Portals have always existed between Nirn and other worlds, or so I have learned. Many of them form here on Atmora, and that is one reason the island is now unable to support life.”

“What do you mean, ‘reason’?” My teeth were chattering, and I decided to use a Shout I was told could calm any storm, whether natural or supernatural. The one I had used on my way to meet Paarthurnax. I had not used it since that day.

“ _Lok vah koor!_ ” Though I did not necessarily need to physically shout these particular Words of Power in order for them to take effect, I did so out of frustration, and to warm my bones a bit. It took a moment, but soon the winds slowed to a gentle breeze, the snow ceased falling and blowing, and the clouds thinned. Patches of blue peeked through the overcast grey.

Elodie chuckled, and rubbed her ears. “You have done well for yourself.”

“I had good teachers,” I murmured. “What did you mean about Atmora, Elodie?”

She sighed. “Kynareth created the storms above Atmora to protect this land and others from each other. Portals form once in a long while,” she turned, “in places such as that gate, there.” She pointed the Staff of Magnus at the cleft boulder. “Atmora is not the only place, as you know, though it is the most active. Portals can form anywhere on Nirn. The Psijics… they track them. They make sure nothing dangerous comes in. Or goes out.”

“Like a dragon.”

“Or a god.”

 _Or a gun_ , I mused. We approached the portal back to the Summoning Stones, and I kicked snow into the swirling glow.

“You have to go with them, the Psijics, don’t you?”

Elodie’s smile was gentle. “Yes, I am being trained. It was what they had planned for me.”

“Planned? Since when? Saarthal?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Ah….” I peered down at my snow-tipped boots, and pushed my next question out of my mouth. “Will I ever see you again?”

She smiled once more. Gods, she was beautiful when she smiled. Elodie leaned in and hugged me with her free arm.

I took that for a ‘no’.

“Hurry to Markarth,” she murmured. “Your presence there will comfort many.” She backed away, and then added, “Seek out Ralof; he will need you.”

In a blur of brightness, blood-red, and flaxen hair, Elodie was gone.

. . . . . .

A low fire glowed back at our camp. Stenvar stoked the embers, encouraging new life. He didn’t hear me approach.

No one else was around the fire. Ingjard and Sharash were fixing a tent. Selina was skinning a deer. Darius and Brelyna spoke quietly behind Selina. Athis and Njada were absent.

Stenvar’s gaze was, in fact, not on the embers, but rather somewhere far, far away. I had to clear my throat to get his attention, as well as the attention of the rest of camp.

The sound made Stenvar jump. I had never seen him caught so off guard. I witnessed the moment in which relief set in over his face – that tiny exhalation of breath he had been holding in, the first hint of crow’s feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

Stenvar tossed the fire stick to the ground and stomped across the camp to me, clamping onto my shoulders with his hands. For a short, confusing moment, I thought the man might kiss me, though perhaps the occasion would have called for it considering he might have thought me dead. His lips parted as he inhaled, but quickly stilled and came together again. He exhaled through his nose, and smiled through a faint chuckle.

“You took long enough.” His words were teasing, but I knew what he meant. I would have to ask him for how long I was gone, later.

The rest of the camp shouted their rejoicings at my survival and approached. Everyone was asking loud questions simultaneously, all except Stenvar, who sunk back, letting the others hug me or pat me on the shoulder. Ingjard mussed my hair, more than it had already been mussed. Despite their enthusiasm, I couldn’t answer their questions. Not now.

I was exhausted, among other things.

Later in the evening, after healing my aching hand again, taking a dose of a healing potion, and gorging on a meal of choice cuts of venison, I sat in front of my tent, gazing up at the moons and stars through the broken swamp canopy. The campfire smoke thankfully kept most of the midges away.

Soft footsteps approached behind me, and someone sat themselves down at my side. Stenvar. He handed me an opened bottle of mead which I accepted with unbridled enthusiasm. My friend drank and stargazed with me in silence, for a while.

“You’ll need to talk about it, eventually,” he prodded. “I know that look. Either ya killed a lot of people, saw somethin’ terrible, or… somethin’ happened that I can’t even imagine.” He shifted, pulling a leg up towards his chest for a moment to stretch a muscle. Grunting as he straightened his leg again, he added, “Doesn’t matter who, so long as it comes out.”

How appropriate for it to be Stenvar to be sitting with me, now, to be the first to hear the news of the Eye, of where it was hidden. Of course I would tell him. It wasn’t a secret, anyway. Still gazing up, I smiled.

 _Two moons_. They glowed particularly bright, tonight. I then followed the line of clustered stars that resembled the rim of the Milky Way. Holes, so many holes in the heavenly canopy. Or something like that. Whatever stars were, here, the night sky above Nirn was captivating.

“My home,” I answered in a hushed tone, ending Stenvar’s relaxation. He voiced his curiosity. “I was home. Atmora, it’s… a portal. A portal was put… always has been… on Atmora. To my home. But…,” my mouth hung open as my mind searched for the words that matched my emotions. “The portal was to a… an earlier time. Hundreds… thousands of years before I was born. I don’t know. That is where… one of the cultures in my world, their beliefs and language… it comes from here, and Atmora. I had guessed, but….” I pursed my lips, thinking. “It truly is all connected. All of it. Every world, somehow, connected. Everything.”

A tear rolled down my cheek, though I had not realized I had begun to cry. Stenvar grasped my hand, the uninjured one.

“I was home,” I repeated. “I was home, but, it was not my home.” I felt the tears fill in, blurring my vision.

I hadn’t had any choice, anyway. The world I had been in, though it was Earth – probably – it could never have been my home. Living with real Vikings would have been barely different from being in Skyrim, aside from the lack of magic and dragons and undead, and I would have left behind everything I had known for the last few years. Everything I was. The efforts of gods, wasted.

“I left,” I continued. My mouth opened to say more, but nothing came out. I blinked, and more tears finally trickled down. Turning to my sellsword friend, my voice broke as I whispered, “I came back. I am home. _This_ is my home. I’m home.”

“You are, sweetheart,” Stenvar assured me, wrapping an arm around my waist and kissing the top of my head. “You are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Shouts**  
>  Laas - Aura Whisper  
> Tiid - Slow Time  
> Feim zii gron - Become Ethereal
> 
>  **Norren**  
>  Hvas - what  
> Zeik ki da vita - I don't understand you  
> Nei - no  
> Zeik ki da skul dripa - I will not kill you  
> Alfir - elf  
> Aug - eye  
> Aug frotha - magical eye  
> Zeik leita par aug se regen - I search for the eye of the gods  
> Mikil aug - giant eye  
> Laza - mage  
> Var - human  
> zeik vita da antlet - I recognize your face  
> Da sottekat Bruz se Veltnerath. Eg Ancano. Da ers Deborah. Kir, hjalpa zeik. Sos mathiren fysan zeik dripar. - You attended the College of Winterhold. I'm Ancano. You're Deborah. Please, help me. These men want to kill me.  
> Zena. Rathgif ti Savos Aren. Da vitas zeik! - True. Advisor to Savos Aren. You know me!  
> Da erat med Thalmor - You were with the Thalmor  
> Da erat uppstele - You were a spy  
> Nei, nei, ki uppstele. Rathgif! - No, no, not a spy. An advisor!  
> Gypta sa zeik - give that to me  
> Megin kiger lein ik mina hanten ath zeik stothatur med volginen! - The power to unmake the world in my hands and I am stopped by savages!  
> Hvas ersn grahig in Bromjunaar? - What are you all doing in Bromjunaar?  
> Zeik ki da skul loga. Dripa zeik, gera! - I'm not going to tell you! Kill me, do it!  
> Fliri se os synan. Os enklaar furvan tid. Nueh dan skul kvona. Nueh-- - More of us exist. All we need is time. Never will you all succeed. Never--
> 
>  **Old Norse/Icelandic**  
>  Alfr - elf  
> Fróða auga - Wise eye
> 
>  **Norwegian (modern)**  
>  Takk – thanks


	41. Fruits of the Harvest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading, following, commenting, and talking to me about this story! I thought I wouldn’t get another chapter done for a while, but I should have known better. I think what I need to do is finish this book (only a handful of chapters left) and THEN concentrate totally on my dissertation.  
> Sorry/not sorry for such a long chapter.  
> I listened to a lot of Wardruna while writing this. “Ingwar” is perfect for the scene after Markarth….  
> “Seven Devils” by Florence + the Machine is good for… everything else.  
>  **Content warning:** graphic depiction of bodily injury and treatment

“More crab legs?”

The crabber, an old Redguard who introduced himself only as the Crab Man, held out a bowl of the boiled appendages from some of the smaller ‘ramiken’, or ‘mud crabs’, that he had trapped. I happily took some for myself and passed the bowl to Ingjard.

Mouth half full with delicious crab, I thanked the Crab Man.

“It’s nothin’,” he insisted, shrugging off the matter. “These bits I keep for myself. The money crabs are already sold. Anyway, not like I’m one to keep food n’ shelter from the Dragonborn.”

I nearly lost my next mouthful. Swallowing before I spoke, I asked, “You know me?”

Crab Man beamed as he laughed. “My daughter lives in Morthal. Word travels fast, especially along the river. Anyway, hard to miss that fancy armor.” He grunted as he stood. “I’ll clean up a bit. Can’t have you sleepin’ on my filth.”

“We have a tent and bedrolls,” I called after him. “You don’t need—“

“If Talos himself came knockin’ at my shack wall, askin’ for a bite n’ a bed, you’re damn sure ol’ Crab Man’ll sleep on the porch that night. Dragonborn isn’t any diff’rent.”

I began again to protest, but Ingjard grasped my forearm, quieting me with a look. I held my tongue, and stuffed my face.

Not far away, setting up their tent, were Stenvar and Selina, chuckling. Stenvar had argued his way into my company, ignoring the fact that his cousin Olfina was expecting him home soon, and that she was weary with pregnancy. Stenvar also didn’t let me dissuade him with my own personal guilt should something happen to him, or to Selina, if they continued to travel with me. Fa’nir and Jenassa still weighed heavily on my conscience, and I wasn’t sure my sanity could take any more casualties. But, as Stenvar explained it, his shortcuts would get us to Markarth in half the time any map could, and he knew, or so he claimed, where all the Forsworn camps were. _I’m not sendin’ you out into The Reach with a hunch n’ a locator spell,_ were his words, more or less. He had been angry at my initial refusal, so I gave in. Who was I to deny my ‘most faithful ally’, anyway?

Before we left the camp near the Summoning Stones, Brelyna, Darius, and I used lightning runes to explode the circular platform and the portal with it. I was regretful to destroy what was likely an ancient construction, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I didn’t want to assume the portal would just disappear with time. Whatever energy had been fueling the portal was broken along with the stone.

Brelyna returned to the swamp’s northern banks in the company of Darius and Sharash, and they would explain to Olfina why Stenvar hadn’t returned with them. They were also to bring north all of the spoils we had collected from some of the bodies of the fallen undead. The task was gruesome, one I could not complete initially due to my absence and later due to the advanced stage of rot of some of the corpses, but Stenvar, Sharash, and Ingjard had picked through the bodies, liberating any expensive looking weapons they could find. As always, amulets and other personal items – and especially clothing and armor, some of which had become glued to decaying flesh – had been left with the dead. Brelyna and her Flame Atronach had ignited expedient pyres for them all. Thankfully, half-dried, half-decomposed bodies burned fairly easily. Thankfully, our camp was upwind.

Athis and Njada had left almost immediately after I went through the first portal. They headed back to Whiterun, back to the Companions. _Had enough of magic,_ they had told Stenvar. From Solitude, Darius and Sharash would return to Meridia’s temple. Darius wanted to begin a ‘spiritual cleansing’ of the place as soon as possible, and Sharash wanted to finish building a shack before the first snow.

I was particularly sad to see Brelyna leave. Had Jenassa not been injured, the huntress would have been with us, and Brelyna assured me they both would have traveled with me to Markarth and beyond. She wasn’t sure what would happen, now.

“It might be best,” she had said, “to stay in Solitude for a little while longer while Jenassa heals, perhaps help Olfina around the house.”

After, she guessed they would return to Winterhold where Brelyna continued to study, and where Jenassa still occupied Stenvar’s little house. They would not have to pay rent, this way, she had explained. It wasn’t my place to do so, not really, but I offered her the shelter of the palace at Windhelm, should they need it. She was hesitant, however, about moving to the city of ice, and I didn’t blame her.

City of ice. Towering icy stone walls, snow blanketing the streets and filling the wind, and racists polluting the ambience. I saw myself teasing Yrsarald, _You couldn’t have lived in pleasant Whiterun, Yrsa, hmm?_ But life in his city was improving, he claimed. I hoped that was the case.

Damn, it hurt how much I missed him. Though I desired very much to return to High Hrothgar for just a little bit longer, to complete learning several more Shouts, I needed to return to Windhelm, to Yrsarald, and to the rest of my family. Once back in Yrsarald’s arms, however, I wasn’t sure he would ever let me leave.

As I chewed my dinner, I wondered if my life would be simpler after Markarth, after Falkreath. The world was safe from a dangerous necromancer – two of them, actually. The only open issues were the Thalmor and Bromjunaar, neither of which I had any updates on. I would have to see if anything changed once I returned to Whiterun. Perhaps I would visit Jarl Balgruuf. Perhaps I would also run into The Little Shit, Onmund.

With the civil war on hold and two necromancers dealt with, Arkay was likely less angry. Fewer dead, if any at all, would rise if that were the case. Whiterun’s priest of Arkay, Andurs, had explained that when Arkay talked about souls walking Mundus to avoid Aetherius, where Alduin was _eating_ souls, the god was likely referring to ghosts. Necromancers apparently created zombies by keeping, or replacing, souls and spirits in the bodies of the dead. Though less people would be dying thanks to the truce, and magical abilities would return to normal now that the Eye of Magnus was deactivated and the veil between worlds was able to regenerate, I still worried about the undead situation, zombies and ghosts. I worried what Alduin hunting in Aetherius or Oblivion meant for the souls of the dead. Though, perhaps, this was not my problem to worry about. Alduin was Torug’s problem. But where was Torug? Was Torug my problem, yet?

My thoughts turned to the Eye, and what it showed me in New York City. It was impossible, wasn’t it? Greg had always reassured me a zombie epidemic was impossible, at least as far as the reanimated dead was concerned. Rabid, cannibalistic people running amok, sure why not, but the walking deceased? Unlikely. Even I knew this was at least not plausible. Sure, dead muscle mass could experience spasms under various conditions, but could critters walk and have a drive, a purpose? No, not possible. Not without magic. Now more than ever I believed that the ‘imagination’ that spawned the ideas of zombies, werewolves, orcs, and dragons all came via portals to and from worlds like this one.

“It’s the twenty-fourth.”

I looked up at the sound, mind rescued from being lost in thought. “What?”

Crab Man turned to me. “Twenty-fourth. Of Last Seed.”

“Oh.” I looked to Ingjard, but she was busy studying our tattered map of the country while Stenvar glanced at it from over her shoulder.

“Good,” Stenvar said, nodding. “I’m certain we can make the Stormcloak camp in two day’s ride. Rough goin’, but I’ll get ya there. We’ll camp tomorrow at my friend’s hunting camp, here.” He pointed to the map, showing Ingjard. “If we only stay the one night with the Stormcloaks, we’ll be in Markarth by Harvest’s End.”

“Think of all that juniper ale, Stenvar,” Selina teased with a wink.

. . . . . .

The Reach was a beautiful land, mountainous and full of varied flora, craggy hills, and a raging river that poured over boulders, leading us west and then south toward Markarth. The scenery was a bit too distracting.

Before we reached the hunting camp, we were met with a band of highwaymen who had built some sort of wooden palisade to block travelers on their way east and west. We bypassed their little settlement, letting the horses carry us across mostly shallow water, but something about the place didn’t sit well with me. The feeling nagged at my brain, but I ignored it. Though the bandits had indeed seen us, they didn’t attack, and my companions didn’t want to engage them. We were in a hurry. Elodie had told me to hurry.

The Stormcloak camp in the north of the hold, hidden in a small valley within the bend of the river, had been all but abandoned. Several soldiers were there to guard the place and middle-man any messages or supplies that might have needed to find their way to the camp at Markarth. They knew me by the sight of my armor, they had said, and offered me the officer’s tent for the night. The tent fit me and my companions inside comfortably. Any of the possible awkwardness following Stenvar’s apparent unrest while I was in another universe – the reason for which did not go unnoticed by Selina – was temporarily forgotten, and the four of us collapsed onto fur blankets and slept until just before dawn, Stormcloak soldiers keeping watch.

From the Stormcloak camp we followed the river, the Karth, south, a more or less easy path compared to the off-road unevenness of the previous days. According to Ingjard, today, the twenty-seventh of Last Seed or, as I kept thinking of it, August, was the last day of the annual harvest, at least symbolically. Were Markarth not occupied by Forsworn, we would have been able to join the locals in free drinks of wheat beer and juniper ale. Much to the disappointment of my companions, the farms in The Reach had been decimated, as the Stormcloaks had put it, forcing locals to flee, and supplies to be brought in from Haafingar and Falkreath. There was no harvest to celebrate in The Reach, this year. This morose reality was juxtaposed with the magnificent views that The Reach offered, including a stunning waterfall that I stared at for quite some time while we all had a rest. As I had in Whiterun while on the balcony behind the palace, I sorely wished for a camera.

Aside from a few pee breaks, our travels had gone uninterrupted. We let the horses walk at their own pace, not wanting to push them harder than traveling all day over rough country already did.

The sun had just finished setting behind the towering mountains when my mare snorted and dipped her head down, twice. Snowflake balked for a moment, but then continued walking normally. I cast some Candlelight spells above us, and the gentle lights hovered like little torch-bugs, or lightning bugs as I knew them.

“You tired, girl?” I crooned, giving her neck a well-deserved pat and rub. She snorted again, and then the muscles of her neck began to quiver, more than just in reaction to an itch. Potato, ahead of me and Snowflake, whined, and then swooshed his tail down low, between his legs.

“Somethin’s got the horses scared,” Stenvar noted. I agreed. Though I wasn’t all that familiar with horse language, something was definitely not right with Snowflake, a calm horse under most circumstances. I also trusted Stenvar’s knowledge of equine behavior.

I stopped thinking about the horses and of the scenery, and tried to ignore the sound of rushing water. What were the horses afraid of? Was there a dragon nearby? A Forsworn ambush?

 _Crap_.

“ _Laas yah nir!”_ The effect of the whisper-screamed Shout hit like a punch to the chest. The air had been knocked out of me.

“Deb, are you alright?” Ingjard maneuvered Potato to pull astride Snowflake. “Do you need to stop?”

“Something’s wrong,” I muttered, still catching my breath.

“You didn’t eat that green furry cheese, did you?” Selina asked.

Breathing deep, I looked ahead to the south, knowing something big awaited us outside of Markarth. Not a dragon, though. I barely even felt the presence of all the soldiers we were supposed to have been preceded by. They were there, but like a weak heartbeat, I struggled to find their pulse.

“Come on!” I shouted to the others, and kicked my heels against Snowflake’s sides. She hesitated and snorted, but a second kick sent her off. The mare galloped as fast as her stocky body could, and the others followed.

Ingjard’s chubby stallion was slower than the rest, and I heard her call from a distance. “Deb! What is it?”

“Bad!” was all I could answer. I didn’t know what it was, what we were heading into. All I knew was that my brain was unable to identify the being, energy, storm, _something_ up ahead, aside from the fact that it was evil, pure evil, strong enough a presence to cloak all others, including the many soldiers outside of the city. I shot a burst of Magelight into the dark beyond.

My mind screamed. I winced and keeled forward, but was thankfully braced by Snowflake’s neck. The mare carried on, snorting in fear but plowing ahead anyhow.

 _There_. The expansive camp was in sight. Smoke rose from tall campfires and people were rushing about, weaving around supplies strewn across the grounds. Something, someone must have been attacking. Over the pounding of hoof beats I began to hear the screaming, wailing, crying and yelling of soldiers. The valley was shrouded in darkness, but the scene before us was clear.

The fires seen from far away were not campfires, but tents, aflame. The objects that littered the ground were not supplies, but bodies. Men and women were scrambling, aiding the wounded, calling out for others they could not find. Healing magic flashed from the hands of healers and battlemages. Magelight orbs and torches lit the grounds where the tent fires did not.

The armies were in chaos. Had they battled one another, the Stormcloaks and Imperials?

 _Ralof_. _Find Ralof._ I didn’t know anyone else here, aside from perhaps General Tullius. I didn’t know what else to do. There was _too_ _much_ to do. I was overwhelmed.

Clear-Seeing. I cast the spell, concentrating on Ralof. The snaking blue cloud of magic shot past a Stormcloak woman, startling her. I steered Snowflake to my left, following the trail. It wasn’t until we had cleared the camp grounds that I realized Ralof was long gone, possibly not even in The Reach, anymore. He was somewhere east.

Turning around, I searched for signs of anyone in charge – someone shouting orders, someone trying to help many people, any of that. No one stood out. No one, in only one hundred or so living people. One hundred, out of what should have been at least one thousand.

“I’m going to find out what happened!”

Tullius. Clear-Seeing led me west, toward the city. The trail ended at a body. I illuminated it with Magelight. Even from my mount, I could see that the fancy Romanesque armor, though splashed with grime, was that of Tullius. His blood stained the ground black, no doubt originating from the gaping wounds at his throat.

I gagged, and looked away. Again I kicked Snowflake’s haunches, and forward to the city gates we climbed. More scrambling, more crying, more death lined the way. The attack must have just happened, just before we arrived. How could something like this have started and ended so quickly?

Still on horseback, we ascended stone steps, and I saw the entrance to Markarth. The gates were wide open, but undamaged. And then I realized – the soldiers had not entered the city. The city, rather, had burst out upon the soldiers. Like trees felled by a tsunami wave, all bent in a single direction, bodies had been knocked down and torn apart by something that had exited the gates, flowing too quickly for anyone to defend themselves properly.

“Deb….”

I looked to Ingjard, whose face was drawn out, and eyes wide. “What could have done this?” I asked. Stenvar and Selina kept quiet.

Slowly, Ingjard shook her head. “I-I don’t know. Maybe… a dragon?” She scrunched her face. “In the city? No. I don’t know.”

I looked around again, horrified. A dragon could set things on fire, sure, but that wouldn’t explain the gates, and the pattern of destruction. No, not a dragon. What worried me more than anything was that the enemy, whatever it was, had disappeared so soon after the attack. It, they, had been here recently; I felt their footprint.

I needed to decide what to do. I needed to talk to survivors.

Everyone was scattered, frantic. No one paid any attention to us. We were not a threat. We were not their leader. We were not their dying friend.

Down the steps, back toward the camp, several soldiers had crowded together by a flaming tent. A man was on the ground, screaming in pain. I urged Snowflake toward them.

“What happened here!?” I called to them as I cast Magelight above the scene.

A young blonde Imperial Army soldier whipped towards me at the sound of my voice, but otherwise ignored me. He and his companions were doing something to the screaming man’s legs.

I scrambled down from Snowflake and knelt down to join them. “Where is he hurt?”

A long pause, filled with eyeing me and my companions, preceded one of the men’s answers. “Bone’s out of the skin. We’re waiting for a healer.”

“Let me see,” I insisted as I pushed my way to their friend.

The man who had answered grabbed my upper arm. “Are you a healer?”

I shrugged him off. “I can heal.”

Just as the soldier had said, the screaming man’s tibia had broken at a sharp angle, and the lower half had ruptured the anterior muscle and skin. The other soldiers had removed the shin guard and cut away fabric.

I suppressed a gag, and looked up at the six people who hovered me. “Have none of you fixed a broken leg before?” The Imperial soldiers looked at me with blank expressions. “No one?” I asked, glancing around.

“No, sorry,” Injgard answered.

“Not myself, but I’ve seen it done,” Stenvar said as he crouched by me. “Pull n’ put into position, watch for blood loss, give ‘im a healing potion, after.”

“Something like that,” I sighed. I wasn’t at all certain, but I had a vague idea what to do. I knew bones, at least. That was something. Anyway, what I didn’t understand, such as what to do with torn arteries and muscle, I hoped healing magic would figure out for me.  It was this, or leave this man’s leg available longer to hungry bacteria.

“Hold him down. All of you,” I ordered the soldiers. “This will hurt him a lot.” All the while, the injured man cried and whimpered. Moving him even the slightest brought on fresh screams.

“I’m, ehh….” Selina backed away abruptly. “I’m going to go look for a trained healer.” She mounted her horse, and galloped away. I glanced at Stenvar, wondering if he knew the real reason why she left. I had felt something as she stood close behind me, a certain pique in interest that could only be defined as severe physical hunger mixed with sexual desire. The feeling reminded me of Viinturuth’s hatred of humans and accompanying bloodlust, and I wondered how I had sensed her emotion. Perhaps, I thought, her werewolf nature had been awakened. I kept my observations to myself.

I could see the bone fracture surface, and I could feel its other half. Ingjard sat across from me, anchoring the intact leg, and Stenvar anchored the broken leg’s ankle. The three Imperial soldiers held their friend by the waist and shoulders. At my cue, Stenvar began to pull, slowly. The poor man’s screams could have been heard across the hold.

While Stenvar pulled, I turned the leg back into its natural position, feeling the alignment with my left fingers. The tibia had not splintered, but there was a small fragment of bone broken off, still adhering to periosteum. Despite overlying muscle and fascia, the fragment was easy to fit into place. When I felt the two halves and fragment all meet in an agreeable way, I sent forth healing magic, hopefully jump-starting the bone’s natural healing process. I let the sensations at my fingerpads guide me in knowing when it was alright to let go, when the bone had braced itself with a callus. The periosteum regenerated at hyper-speed, keeping the bone aligned and intact for me. The callus grew larger, and I lifted my hand to check if the bone would split apart again. It didn’t. I let the healing magic work on the torn fascia, and finished with the skin. The wound from the puncture was still ragged and angry. Ingjard was quick to offer the man a sip of her healing potion. An Imperial soldier then helped the man drink some water.

Tired, I sat back and breathed deep. “Stitch the wound,” I ordered the soldiers. “Put something hard against the leg.” Ingjard handed me a small bottle of magic-regenerating potion. My face contorted at the sour taste. One of the soldiers ran off, hopefully to find something to stitch and brace the leg with.

“What happened here?” I asked again. Ingjard handed me a canteen, and I drank deep.

The two soldiers glanced at each other. The one with the broken leg, now lying down, didn’t care about conversation, and occupied himself by suppressing his weeping. Stenvar propped up the leg with someone’s helmet.

“I d-don’t know what they were,” the skittish young blonde answered. “There were some Forsworn, b-but… it hap-pened too fast.”

I turned to the calmer soldier. “When? When did this happen?”

“Sundown. The light faded, and they came. Anything that could burn, did. We killed a lot of them, the mages. But then the dark ones came.”

The young soldier began to sob, and the older man smacked him. “Crying isn’t going to help, is it? You stay here. I’m going to look for Tullius.”

“He’s dead,” I related, standing. “I’m sorry. And I have to go.”

“Wh—no, you can’t leave. We need healers!”

“Exactly.” I closed my eyes, concentrated, and lead my horse by the reins in the direction of another injured person. My right hand ached, still recovering from its injury, but I ignored the dull, chronic throb.

Selina reappeared eventually, calmed, and no longer on my dragon sense radar.

 

We stayed until dawn, helping those we could. The growing light of day illuminated the strewn bodies and the grotesqueness of the valley. Mangled flesh, shredded armor, and limbs and heads here and there, horses and mortals alike. The camp’s livestock had also been violated. Some bodies were pointed out to me as Forsworn, clothed in skimpy animal skins, bodies painted with clay, kohl, and blood. Feathers adorned their hair, and what looked like snakebite marks decorated their necks, chests, and upper arms.

 _No, not snakes. Vampires bites?_ I knelt down to inspect a dead Forsworn woman, who had indeed been alive before arrows found her throat and stomach. I pressed my fingertips to the two partially healed, delicate parallel puncture wounds on her upper breast. The spacing was similar, from what I remembered of vampires, here. Something in the back of my mind told me my deduction was the correct one. I sneered, and a flash of rage heated my ears. _Vampires. Vampires!_  

“What is it?” Ingjard asked.

I stood, and composed myself, unsure why I had become so impassioned. “It was vampires.”

Selina groaned, and rubbed her temples. “A lifetime without undead blood-suckers causing problems, and now this? Caged vampires were bad enough.”

“Wait,” Stenvar implored. “Vampires attacked _with_ the Forsworn?”

I nodded. “That is what I think the soldier saw. Vampires drank the blood of the Forsworn, like this woman. See the bites? Or… perhaps the vampires _were_ the Forsworn. Some of them.” I frowned at the possibility. Strong, old-magic-wielding vampires. Fantastic. “Maybe that is how they took Markarth, this time.”

“No one mentioned vampires attacking Markarth,” Stenvar reminded me.

“True.” I looked around the camp. “That does not matter right now, does it?” I headed for our makeshift camp, my companions following, and began to pack my things into Snowflake’s saddlebag. The others made ready to leave, too. “Many soldiers are missing,” I continued, “Ralof, too. He is east, somewhere. Not southeast… I think he is already in Whiterun.”

“If we ride east from Fort Sun- _gard_ ,” Stenvar noted, “we can push along the road south of Fort Grey- _feid_ , be in Whiterun in two days.”

I thought for a moment. “I will see Ralof, yes, but he must have left days ago.” I finished packing and mounted Snowflake. “Ingjard and I will go to Whiterun and then north, to Windhelm. Before, we will go to Falkreath. There is a dragon there that I need to… see.”

Stenvar, walking back toward his mare, Honey, shot me a confused look over his shoulder, and shrugged.

“You don’t have to come south,” I reminded him and Selina. “It is one dragon.”

“And probably a hoard of Forsworn-vamp’s hidden in the hills along the way. I’m followin’, like it or not. Besides….” Grunting, he helped Selina mount her horse. “I need to visit a place along the way.”

. . . . . .

Stenvar knelt in front of the large roadside shrine to Dibella, praying. He had stripped his upper half of armor and underarmor before the statuette, letting goddess’s mark on his chest be seen by her, I supposed. As if Dibella would forget _him_. What had Meridia called Stenvar? Dibella’s most beloved? The title was well earned.

“The inn isn’t far,” Ingjard whispered to me, poking at our map. “Then tomorrow… er, the mine is a bit far from where Stenvar wanted to camp after, but then Falkreath is apparently just a nice ride through the woods for a day. Mostly downhill, I think. Falkreath is supposed to be on low ground.”

I watched Stenvar intently, and wondered what he prayed for. Likely, that Dibella’s conduit, Fjotra, would be able to return to Markarth, since the city had been completely abandoned after the vampire attack. Neither magic nor Shouts had revealed anything to me within the city, and Imperial Army mages confirmed this. Stenvar had then made his own way, with Selina, to the temple of Dibella within. They had found nothing but death, there, but refused to elaborate.

The inn we stayed at was nice, if not a bit odd. The owner claimed to have a room once inhabited by Tiber Septim himself, which meant it was hundreds of years old – or perhaps thousands? I had no point of reference for counting, the way the eras were divided, here. High Hrothgar’s bed was made of stone, and had not been slept in _since_ Talos’s time there. How could an inn in the middle of nowhere claim the same? Rather than dishing out money we couldn’t really spare, Ingjard and I shared a cheaper option across the hall. Stenvar and Selina opted for the royal suite, though.

Aside from experiencing an odd dream about a ghost screaming at me about a sword he lost, I was well-rested for a change. The inn, for all its touristy weirdness, provided excellent food and comfortable, clean beds. The innkeeper, thankfully, didn’t know me from any other traveler, and made no fuss about not letting me pay.

As the four of us rode east, I realized what felt odd about our journey. “Stenvar, you’re not singing.”

“No, I’m not.” He kept his voice low.

Silence. “Why not?” Markarth was free, now. I figured he’d be happy about that. Though, perhaps the deaths of hundreds of soldiers balanced out any positives. I understood.

“’Why not?’ Because, sweetheart, if we’re lucky, the hawk-fuckers will think our horse’s hooves are that of deer, and I won’t get a bone arrowhead in my eye.”

I paused a moment, processing. “Hawk-fuckers?”

“I think he’s talking about the _kerlvaken_ ,” Ingjard whispered. “They’re supposed to like living in hills like these.”

“’Kerlvaken’,” I repeated. “The bird women?” She nodded. I looked ahead, concerned. “I don’t sense anything. Just some rabbits and a fox and… a big animal, like a bear but…. I think it is another mountain cat.” Sabre cat, more like. We had to kill one on our journey to the Stormcloak camp. They were _exactly_ what I imagined a ‘saber-toothed tiger’ to look like. Another Pleistocene mammal, alive in Skyrim. Earth scientists would have been drooling, if they knew.

“Is it a danger?” my bodyguard asked.

I shook my head.

“But, you’re not whispering. You don’t need to do that whisper-thing, anymore?”

I shook my head again. “Not always.”

“Ah.” Silence. “Do you know what I’m thinking?”

“No, Ingjard.”

“What about Stenvar? Do you know what Stenvar is thinking?”

Unfortunately, sometimes, I did, but it wasn’t due to my increasingly sensitive dragon sense. I answered with a simple, “I cannot know minds, Ingjard.”

“But you know when someone is a threat. How is that different from knowing what I’m thinking, right now?”

“Even horses sense danger,” Selina chimed in from behind. She had heard our low talking.

“Exactly.” I turned to Ingjard. “Are you bored? Do you want me to _guess_ what you are thinking?”

Ingjard grinned, and looked ahead. “There is a travel game I used to play. Naming things we see on the road that begin with a particular letter. ‘ _Mathir’_ – mare. ‘ _Sten_ ’, Stenvar. Or Selina. Or rock.” She giggled. “It’s childish, but, yes. I’m bored.”

This time, I felt their presence before the horses did.

“Go!” I screamed. I kicked Snowflake into full speed and then cast Stoneflesh upon myself. By the arrhythmic sound of many hooves pounding on stone slabs and trodden earth, I knew that the others were following. The river we had been traveling beside appeared as if it was coming to an end, but rather took a sharp bend south. The sound of its rapids faded, and shouting and whooping rose in volume. _Shit, shit._ The road continued east-southeast, and the fort Stenvar had mentioned, supposedly under Imperial control, had come into sight.

The fort was not under Imperial control.

On its highest tower, I saw feathered silhouettes take aim with magic and bows.

“ _Fus roh dah!_ ” I screamed the thundering words, blasting the few Forsworn from the ramparts and scaring this shit out of my horse. My companions sped past me as Snowflake reared and squealed, but I spoke Kyne’s words to her. “ _Kaan drem ov_ , my darling.” Kyne, peace, trust. It was one of the first Shouts I learned at High Hrothgar. It had a calming effect on animals. I had almost used it on the sabre cat when Selina shot an arrow into its brain. I had been a bit perturbed about needlessly killing the beautiful creature, but I understood her knee-jerk reaction to defend herself. The thing’s canine teeth were as long as my face.

Snowflake settled and continued forward. More shouting came down from the hills. Ingjard had doubled back, nearly bashing my horse with hers in an attempt to cover me with her shield.

“We just need to run, Ingjard!”

Eyes wild, she screamed, “There are dragons!”

The horses took us forth, but I was temporarily petrified. How had I not sensed dragons!?

Passing the fort, the danger of the Forsworn minimized. The fort itself was high on a hill with flat rockface lining the road the entire way, and though two scantily clad Forsworn had been on the road ahead of us, they had apparently been taken care of by Selina and Stenvar, and no path between the road and the fort was obvious.

The echo of an enraged roar vibrated through the valley, and we finally came to the clearing where we were meant to turn south. Snowflake was terrified, and I didn’t blame her.

Stenvar and Selina had already dismounted, and their horses were nowhere to be seen. Looking behind me, I made sure we were not being followed by Forsworn before I steered Snowflake down the right turn and brought her to a halt. The dragons soared around a hill to the north. I dismounted and smacked Snowflake’s rear, joining the impact with a yell to scare her off. Stenvar and Selina had the right idea; Snowflake didn’t need to die because of me. With Ingjard close behind, we scaled the short hill, following the others who had stupidly went ahead of me toward the dragons.

“ _Yol!_ ” I Shouted fire toward the sky. I needed the dragons to turn their attentions to me, to their kin; I needed them to not roast my human friends.

“ _Yol toor shul!”_ I elaborated, greeting the dragons with a dominant stance in the form of an inferno.

Their own words thundered continuously around us, rolling down from the sky and across the hills. Their Shouts were different from mine, from any Tongue’s. This was their language, and though I knew the meaning behind their phrases, even I only heard thunder. I knew, however, that they were fighting, and arguing. I felt their words.

We passed a round stone mound surrounded by stone henges, similar to ones seen all around Skyrim. The subconscious archaeologist in me ached to see what the earth would reveal about the place, but it looked like someone had already dug into the center of the mound.

“They’re fighting!” Ingjard shouted, still covering my anterior with her shield.

I followed her line of sight, and sure enough, the two dragons were snapping their maws and swatting their tails at one another. Ice flowed from one, a green dragon, while fire spewed from the other, red one.

Red dragon.

 _“Drem!”_ I called to the sky. _Speak to me_ , I willed the red dragon. _Speak again. Let me hear your voice._

Thunder echoed against the multitude of stones. _Drem yol lok,_ the wind called. I had first learned those words from Viinturuth’s conscience; they meant ‘peace, fire, sky’. Paarthurnax had been impressed when I had spoken the words to him upon our meeting. It was a standard, neutral greeting amongst the _dov_.

The response had come from the red dragon. That was _my_ red dragon.

I strode to Selina’s side. She was behind Stenvar, gauging whether or not she could make a shot with her wooden bow. Frowning, she tossed the weapon to the ground and picked up the black metal bow she had taken from a fallen zombie.

“Don’t, Selina,” I pleaded.

“What, don’t piss off a dragon while it’s being attacked by another dragon while we’re possibly being pursued by Forsworn? Deb….” She clicked her tongue as she fitted an arrow to her black bow, and turned away from the dragons, facing the way we came. “Have a little belief in me, mm?” She stood tall, scanning, waiting. “We’re downwind.” Her silver eyes sparkled. Her nostrils flared. I let her be, trusting Selina to alert us to incoming Forsworn.

Stenvar had walked ahead, and was watching the dragon fight. His sword hung low, resting. Helmet donned, he was ready, and waiting.

“I’ll bet my smallclothes that there’s _your_ dragon,” he said, pointing his sword.

“It is.”

“A dragon stalker. Hmph.” Stenvar chuckled. “I think he _likes_ you.”

“Protector, Stenvar. He protects me.”

“As I said.”

I groaned, and checked behind us. Selina stood still, watching.

Turning back to the dragons, I got a better look at my protector. He was about as big as Paarthurnax, I guessed, but had different features aside from being red. He lacked the beard of horns Paarthurnax boasted, but his nasal and coronal horns were longer, thinner, and his back, spikier. Though his overall color was red-orange, his underside was golden yellow.

With a scream of fire, the red dragon swerved wide, flying over us. The green dragon did not follow, but swerved in the opposite direction. It spewed more ice at the air before turning toward us.  Thunder rumbled from the north, from the green dragon, and I worried. The words it had spoken were ‘ _Vul, jot, naak_ ’. I didn’t understand them.

The green dragon’s crazed yellow eyes flashed as it neared. It roared at us, not words, just the sound. It was done arguing.

“Ready!” I shouted, casting Stoneflesh and preparing a ball of lightning magic between my palms.

“Deb! Forsworn!”

I would have looked back, but it was between a dragon and humans. A dragon won. “How many!?”

“Too many! I—wait!”

Behind me, terrified screams flooded the air, backed by the roar of dragonfire. Briefly, I glanced back to see my friend standing, unharmed, a safe distance from the flames.

 _Thank you_.

The green dragon encroached, and I unleashed the ball of lightning. He squealed and reeled back, pained by the electricity.

“ _Yol toor shul!”_ Frost-breathing dragons were weakest to fire. Fire-breathing, frost. Paarthurnax had taught me what the Greybeards could not.

Briefly aflame, the green dragon soared away, though not far. I turned back to find Selina doing her job as a sniper, picking off Forsworn, whether they were burning alive or not. Stenvar had moved to Selina’s side, shielding her with his armored body while she reloaded arrows. I was privileged to witness Stenvar block an incoming Forsworn arrow with his greatsword. Nice.

The green dragon spoke again. “ _Bah_.” I knew that word; it meant ‘wrath’. I learned it while studying the Shout the Greybeards called Storm Call. I had decided not to concentrate on practicing that particular Shout since its effect, as described by a scroll in the Greybeard’s modest library, was indiscriminate. Lightning bolts would burst from the sky, hitting anything, or anyone. Magic was safer.

Stenvar laughed behind me, and I knew he and Selina were alright.

I sent bursts of fire magic at the angry green dragon’s wings as it flew closer. Its head drew back, and I ran to my left, knowing what was coming. A torrent of frost spewed from its maw and caked the tundra grass. Ingjard followed, and her boots kicked the brittle vegetation, causing it to crack and crunch.

“ _Fus ro dah!”_ The green dragon was punched by the Words of Power and fell some distance before catching the wind with its wings.

My palms tickled with the magic flames. Again and again I sent fire to the frost-breathing dragon, hoping to hit the tender membrane of its wings. The red dragon surprised me by sparing a moment to do the same. His fire breath cascaded over the green dragon, and shrouded in thunder I felt the word, “ _Viik_ ”. Defeat. My protector dragon turned his attention back to the Forsworn.

The green dragon futilely flapped his wings, but the right membrane had been blackened, tattered, destroyed. The ground shook when the dragon crashed onto the earth, landing at an awkward angle upon a clump of boulders before turning onto its stomach. The sound of multiple dorsal spikes snapping made me flinch.

“ _Yol toor shul!”_ Fire preceded lightning. I sent forth a continuous stream of electricity, hoping to stop the beast’s heart. Ingjard advanced with care, avoiding the dragon’s tail and mouth, sword and shield raised. I stopped casting the lightning magic.

“ _Fus ro dah!”_ The dragon cowered, and Ingjard dove forth. Her sword pierced the softer underside of its neck, sliding in all the way to the guard. Ingjard shoved the sword at an angle, slicing internally. The dragon’s body convulsed, and collapsed.

I turned and ran to Selina and Stenvar. Selina held an arrow at the ready, but no Forsworn breached the wall of flames my protector had created. I no longer felt the presence of angry mortals.

“ _Laas yah nir!”_

Absence of living Forsworn confirmed, I let Stoneflesh’s effect dissipate. I strode to Stenvar and leaned on his shoulder, exhausted. Ingjard joined us. Her steel sword dripped black-red.

“I’m fairly certain a sword to the neck kills anything,” my bodyguard mused, “but you might want to do that thing you do before it wakes up. Just in case zombie dragons are possible.”

I whined, “Oh, gods, Ingjard,” and turned back to the fallen dragon.

My draconic protector roared a simple, “ _Lok_ ,” and disappeared to the north. I feared I would never actually meet this dragon, that he would never properly introduce himself. I would have to ask Paarthurnax if he knew anything. More than who or what this red dragon was, I needed to know _why_ he was protecting me.

The look of the green dragon resembled that of the one killed inside the city walls of Windhelm. Its neck and spine boasted a membranous frill, and its tail resembled a deadly leaf. Despite the pool of dark blood oozing from under his neck and the general lack of vitality emanating from his body, I stood at the dragon’s side, avoiding his head, worried that Ingjard had not, in fact, fully killed him.

I stood there, feet planted to the ground, terrified of what would happen when, if, I touched the dragon. My initial experience had been painful – so, so very painful. As with childbirth, I was not looking forward to a repeat of this act, no matter the beneficial outcomes. Hermaeus Mora knew, he knew how painful it had been for me, ‘eating’ a dragon’s soul.

“Quicker. Easier. More certain.”

“What’s certain?” Ingjard approached my side.

“Mm? Nothing.” We stood in silence for a while. Ingjard wiped her sword clean with scraps of leather that looked curiously like Forsworn clothing.

“Are you waiting for it to turn into a zombie?”

“It won’t become a zombie, Ingjard.”

“You cannot know that for certain. Zombie dragon! Anyway, I don’t want to wait to find out. Do your thing so we can get to this camp of Stenvar’s. And, you know, find our horses.”

“They’re nearby.” Ingjard’s armor made shuffling noises as she turned to me. I turned to her, and shrugged. “What? I can—“ I growl-sighed, and turned back to the dragon. “The horses are fine.” We stared for a little while longer. My fists clenched.

“Deb, I’m here to catch you if you fall. You know this.”

“Ingjard, if I ever—” My brain stopped my mouth from speaking the words, but they needed to be said. “If I ever turn against you, against anyone…. If a dragon ever….” I turned to her, hoping she knew what I was trying to say. “If my mind is ever not my own, do not let me—“

“Oh, don’t you worry, Dragonborn. I won’t let you make an ass out of yourself.”

I might have laughed had I not been so worried. _So much for being fearless_. I breathed in deep. I heard Stenvar and Selina approach from behind.

“They’re kind of… pretty, aren’t they?” Selina observed.

Stenvar huffed. “I wonder if they taste like snake.”

“You’ve eaten snake?” The Redguard was shocked. Odd. As a werewolf, I figured she had eaten her share of critters. Perhaps not.

“There’s not a lot I haven’t tasted,” he replied. “Deb, before you—do you think maybe we can… cut a little off? Just a little?” He crossed his arms and grinned.

For whatever reason, the idea of someone eating this dragon, _any_ dragon, horrified me. I stepped forward, and touched the beast’s scales.

_“Rek bo! Zu’u saraan. Briinah sil los dii! Zu’u—niid. Niid! Rek los ni hin, Grutiik! Iiz! Iiz! Fo ahrk iiz! Vuljotnaak naak naan rok laan!”_

_“Yol! Ni daar gein, Vuljotnaak! Neh! Yolseshul! Rek naak hin sil, paal! Hi bo nunon ko ek kopraan!”_

Thoughts ignited in my mind. My eyes and lips were on fire. “ _Ek sos!”_ I heard myself scream, a peculiar sensation not unlike waking oneself up from a dream. “ _Ek sos los dii!” No. No!_ “ _Rrrr—_ She will eat you, and then you will know death! _Yol!”_

 _The hunger. The hunnngggerrr. I need to feed. I need_ flesh _. Where were their cattle, those mortals? South, south. Cattle and goat. Goattt…. Oh, but, their horses. Horses! These ones brought horses! Where did the blood-kin go?_

“Where is she!? Fuck, _ah!_ ” I was on my knees, braced by someone. “She is—here! _Nnnn_ —She has eaten your sssoul, Vuljotnaak! Eeeater of Cattle!” I spat. “You are finished! Your power— _ragh!—_ mine!”

A final scream unleashed the rest of the pain, and I no longer felt the dragon’s will battling mine. I breathed easier. My body relaxed. The release was sudden and, unlike the first time I took a dragon’s soul into mine, the process left no residual confusion. I was... fine.

“Quicker my ass,” I grumbled, and gazed at the heap of dragon bones and scales before me. I turned around to see my three companions eyeing me, stunned and possibly terrified. Ingjard still held my upper arms from my side. Stenvar was gobsmacked, jaw low and body stiff. Selina’s silver eyes glowed and flashed. She wiped her mouth and chin with the back of her hand before fidgeting with her shouldered bow.

“Are you alight?” Ingjard asked.

“Yeah.” I stood without aid and approached the dragon’s skeleton. I poked a lengthy rib, and bent down to pick up a face-sized dragon scale. It resembled a sturgeon’s scute but, obviously, larger. I found several more, and wondered if I could also carry a bone or two, just as a souvenir. Buried under the monster’s ribs and vertebrae were dozens, hundreds of smaller bones, all chewed up and partially digested. Clothing, coins, and a few objects that looked like jewelry had also been in the dragon’s stomach. Nasty.

“Take whatever you want out of this,” I said, waving at the bones. “His name was Vuljotnaak, and he was a jerk.” ‘ _Bac_ ’ was the word I had used. Jerk. Asshole. Douchebag. The harsh sound covered it all. I hooked a rib around my shoulders and headed south, downhill, to find our horses. “We can tell the Jarl of Falkreath we have killed the dragon that ate his farmer’s cattle.”

. . . . . .

“Hey look, ruins. Not sure I ever noticed these before.” Stenvar diverted from the road, and made straight for a round building partially hidden by trees. The architecture resembled that of the empty mound we had found near the stones that resembled Stonehenge.

My gut wrenched. I didn’t know what that place was, but it wasn’t for us to enter. “Stenvar, stop!”

Still on horseback, he turned. “Why?”

I urged Snowflake forward somewhat, not much further than where Honey had taken Stenvar. There was something inside the oddly-shaped building. I didn’t need magic or a Shout to tell me that. A breeze rustled the leaves and carried with them unintelligible whispers, and I could have sworn I saw a faint green shimmer from inside the structure.

“This is Kyne’s place,” I breathed.

“Hmm? Yeah?” Stenvar studied the area again. He scratched his beard. “Kyne have any treasure she’s willing to gift to one of her children?”

Moving my horse forward, I saw bodies strewn at odd angles over steps leading inside the building, and a skeleton poked its hand outside from the entranceway.

“I don’t think she wants her children to go inside,” I noted, nodding towards the building. The breeze continued to carry gentle whispers, and I understood a single word: _revak_. It was the dragon’s word for ‘sacred’. “I think this was a temple to Kyne. The ancient Nords built it.”

“Temples are meant to be entered,” Stenvar maintained.

I tapped Snowflake’s sides with my heels and we headed for the road. “You have enough treasure, Stenvar.”

 

Falkreath was another beautiful hold, and the persistent caresses of the pine-laden, humid summer breeze wakened my senses, helping me to not fall asleep. If it were not for having horses to do the walking for us, I might have needed an extra night at Stenvar’s friends little hunting camp. Though the residual effects of taking into me a dragon’s soul were far less disorienting than they had been the first time, I still experienced lapses in energy, brought on by spontaneous pulses of severe hunger. When the urges came, I needed to eat, and I needed to eat _now_. If I had not had regular menstrual periods the last few months, I would have thought I was pregnant again.

Thank goodness for venison jerky.

“There it is,” Stenvar announced.

Sure enough, the buildings of Falkreath’s capital began to poke through the thick forest cover. Here, we would sell the unburnt bits of loot Stenvar and Selina had taken from the Forsworn whom they and my red dragon had killed. We would also try to sell some of the dragon bones and scales we had carried to our horses, which had conveniently stopped at a lake, not far from the road on the way to the capital. We would stay here for the night, and then move on to Helgen, Riverwood, and finally Whiterun. I itched to make my way to Ralof, but told myself to relax. He was fine; he had left before the attack. If the locator spell was accurate, he had been in Whiterun all along. No, he was fine.

I had a feeling that I and any other survivors, perhaps Ralof too, would have to meet with Balgruuf about Markarth. This annoyed me, but I was at the camp, and I saw the results of the massacre. And, I felt a certain amount of responsibility for what happened. Elodie had told me to hurry. We should have ridden harder, faster. But if we had been there, would we have survived? These thoughts plagued my mind the entire journey.

We ended up selling most of the loot and dragon parts for nearly three thousand gold coins to the blacksmith, alchemist, and an interested tavern patron, in combination with a trade for several potions and other items we needed. I kept the dragon rib and several scales for myself. Why I wanted a rib, I had no idea. It was thick. It looked cool. It was less heavy than the skull, which we left behind. I thought I might hang it in my and Yrsarald’s bedroom, or perhaps above his throne. Yes, in the main hall. Perfect.

The town was rather dreary, heavy with fog and a deathly quiet. Stenvar and Selina guarded our horses and belongings while I, with Ingjard, met with the Jarl, Siddgeir. He recognized me immediately.

“Dragonborn!” He of the plucked eyebrows stood from his throne. “Welcome, welcome. Please, come in.” He approached, gently grasped my forearm, and walked me back the way he had come. “My steward was just telling me about Markarth. Several survivors arrived during the evening. So sad about the soldiers… but at least the city is ours, again.”

His strange accent and manner of speaking annoyed me, as did his jarl-style version of a muscle-shirt. Even in Whiterun, having just met him, I had thought poorly of him, perhaps somewhat influenced by what Yrsarald had told me about the man. Now more than ever I sensed what a snake Siddgeir was. Combined with his slicked-back dark hair, permanently curled upper lip, and zero-percent-body-fat muscular and veiny arms that he probably referred to as Skyrim’s equivalent of ‘guns’, I found him wholly unattractive and gross, and I wished to leave his hall as soon as possible.

I removed a heavy dragon scale from my knapsack and waved it in front of myself for Siddgeir to see. “I killed the green dragon that killed your people and liked to eat your cattle and goats.”

“Ah, yes, good. I thought you might have been nearby. Heard a thunderstorm in the north with the most curious thunder.” He chuckled. “One of my farmers had to send out to Whiterun for a new bull thanks to that dragon. Good work, eh, Delvora, was it?”

“Deborah.”

“Right. Wonderful. Well,” he snapped his fingers, and a tall, stern but attractive Altmer woman strode to his side. She scowled at the Jarl. “Nenya, some coin for the girl. _She_ killed a _dragon_.” His words were stressed oddly, teasing, as if he didn’t believe me or thought that killing a dragon was some mundane accomplishment.

The Altmer nodded and returned to a room at the back of the hall.

“Now then,” Jarl Guns continued, “it’s almost time for my evening meal.” The greasy man leaned forward, lip still curled. A plucked eyebrow twitched up. “Care to join me?”

I tasted a recurrence of venison jerky. “Apologies, Jarl Siddgeir. I have had a very long day.” I turned to the Altmer woman who must have been his steward. She carried a small but hefty purse. “You can keep the coin. But thank you, anyway.” To the Jarl, I added, “Enjoy your dinner, Jarl Siddgeir.”

Ingjard was upset with me for refusing Siddgeir’s reward for killing the dragon, but I argued that the last thing I wanted was for that man to feel like he could buy me, or my services.

“It’s not about the money,” she said, “or even your honor, but this is his hold. If he doesn’t like you, that could mean problems for us. For you, the enemy’s lover.”

Stenvar just snickered all the way to the inn.

. . . . . .

Aside from a small group of highwaymen, our travels east to Helgen and north to Riverwood were pleasant. We did spot a dragon to the east, but it left us alone, and did not appear to be attacking anything. I felt no aggression from it, either. The bandits, however, were hell-bent on doing something very nasty to us women, and had all concentrated on attacking Stenvar, who o _bviously_ was the only person in our group capable of defending themselves….

Selina’s fluid movements and the strength of her new black metal bow assured that one of the bandits received an arrow to the heart. While Ingjard defended the overrun Stenvar, I danced through time, setting several bandits on fire with Dawnbreaker, and shattering the weapons of the remaining bandits with three little words. Disarmed, three of them ran away, limping; the ones who stayed, died.

“Nice,” Stenvar said as he peeked into a coin purse after feeling its weight. “Must be about one hundred coins in here.”

For whatever reason, I felt a stab of disappointment. I had wondered, briefly, if any of the outlaws had been ones I had known when I was with Thrynn, Siv, and Garthek, but I did not recognize any of them. They were just ordinary bandits, camped alongside the road between Helgen and Riverwood.

In neither place did we find more outlaws. Helgen’s officer, Aurela Cato, recognized Ingjard and still called her Dragonborn, much to the confusion and amusement of Stenvar and Selina. Since Yrsarald was not with us, we were allowed to camp not only within the rejuvenated fort, but were offered a room within the main building. I felt a bit wary of the place, having already been inside under very different circumstances a long time ago, but I slept nonetheless. It was a good thing, too, because the next night at Riverwood was a sleepless one.

 

We had settled into the ruined inn at Riverwood before the sun had set. As we dined on our travel food, wavering figures began to appear in the corners of my vision. Both shadow and light darted here and there, never staying long enough for me to determine if I was actually seeing something, or imagining it.

“Son of a _hjorem_ ,” Stenvar spat. “It’s the third, isn’t it?”

Selina’s face scrunched as she tapped fingertip to fingertip, counting. “Yes.” She smiled, and chuckled. “Don’t tell me you believe that stuff, Stenvar.”

“You see the shadows. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

“What’s ‘the third’?” I asked.

“The third of Heart Fire,” Selina answered. “Tales and _Talagen_.”

“And what?”

“ _Talagen_.”

I turned to Ingjard. Her fingers drummed the half-charred tavern bar counter. “The stuff candles are made with.”

“Oh.” Animal fat? I wasn’t entirely sure. “What is… today?”

“The dead walk tonight,” Stenvar muttered as he chugged one of the bottles of mead he found in the basement.

“The dead?” I asked, looking about the main inn hall, which was partially exposed to the night sky. “Ghosts?”

“Yep,” Stenvar answered. “Ghosts. And, if you’re terribly unlucky, draugr.”

I felt a twinge of anger and annoyance at this revelation, which I realized was odd. I didn’t really care one way or another about ghosts, aside from not wanting to be scared by one. Draugr, however…. I shivered. Siv’s ghost had been pleasant…ish. Initially terrifying, but overall, pleasant.

Siv. She had said she was not where she should have been, her spirit. Some in-between purgatory, perhaps? I hoped now with the Eye closed and necromancers dealt with, she was finally at peace. I hoped Ulfric was finally at peace, even if that meant his ghost would not visit Yrsarald tonight. I wondered if Yrsarald _hoped_ Ulfric’s ghost would visit him tonight.

Thinking back, I couldn’t recall anyone ever mentioning this holiday before. Then again, the two previous Heart Fires, or Septembers, that I had experienced – _god, I’ve been in Skyrim for nearly three years?_ – I had been traveling or getting ready to travel between Windhelm and Winterhold. On neither occasion was I met by ghosts, or draugr.

“Do you not like ghosts, Stenvar?” I asked him.

“No one who’s seen war likes ghosts,” was his answer.

“Sven? Sven my boy, where are you?”

I jumped at the sound. “Hilde?” I knew that voice; it belonged to the mother of the asshole, Sven, who lied to Camilla in an attempt to steal her away from Faendal. But by the time I looked up, nothing was there, and the wind and rustling of leaves were the only sounds.

A shadow passed my vision, slowly, but did not last very long. I could have sworn, then, I heard a shattering ceramic stein accompanied by drunken laughter.

“Are you hearing this?” I asked Ingjard.

“What, the wind?” I eyed her, brow raised. “What?” She shrugged, confused.

Turning away from her and watching the space between me and the walls, I searched for more shadows and lights. “I’m hearing ghosts,” I answered. “I’m hearing… things I remember hearing here, when I lived here.”

Ingjard looked around, too. “How many people died in the dragon attack?”

“At least four people that I and Gerdur knew. More, I think.”

Ingjard hugged her canteen to her chest. “I don’t see anything.”

I sighed, and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Perhaps it is just… me. Stenvar thought he saw something, but….” My right hand throbbed, and I relaxed the muscles.

Despite the lack of any boiling kettles in the hall, the smell of venison stew flooded my nostrils.

“I think,” I began, “I think that… those who died here are… back. They’re back, living their lives. They’re cooking and drinking.”

“Does that mean they’ll ignore us?” My bodyguard and I shared a look. “I… think I’ll stand guard, tonight.”

“I think I’ll join you,” I replied.

. . . . . .

Weary and desperate for a bath and a nap, we made it to Whiterun, welcomed by a beautiful sunset. We stabled our horses and headed our separate ways, Stenvar and Selina to the Bannered Mare, and Ingjard and me to Eyleif’s house.

“Who is it?” Eyleif called, not opening the sliding peep-hole cut into the door.

“Your worst nightmare!” Ingjard joked, laughing.

Silence. “What?” Eyleif called again before finally looking through the peep-hole. “Oh, hey Ingjard.” She slammed the peep-hole closed, latched it, and unlocked the door. Her frazzled state was most unexpected; I had only ever known her to be a bubbly, glowing, well-kempt new mother. Perhaps her son was becoming a terror even before he saw his first year.

We entered the dim front room, which was much messier than before. Ingjard and I shed our knapsacks and other bags, and I collapsed into a low chair surrounding the unlit hearth.

“Thanks, sis,” Ingjard said as she joined me in sitting. “It’s been a long few days.”

Eyleif nodded and tied her frizzy hair back.

“Do you mind if I use your bath?” I asked our hostess.

Her wide-eyed reaction was worrying, and confusing. “Eh, not at all.… Just, give me a moment. I’ll heat the water.”

“Oh, that’s alright. I can just use magic—“

“No problem!” The woman jumped nervously and trotted downstairs, but not before closing the trapdoor behind her.

“That was strange,” I noted.

“Very.” Ingjard looked back to the basement door.

“Ralof?” I called, knowing he was here. My magic had told me as much. The house was filled with a heavy silence, though. I stood, and looked around. The back room was empty, as was the back yard. “Where is everyone?”

“The market? The Mare?”

“Gerdur?”

“I don’t think they’re here, Deb.”

“Well…?” I crossed my arms, disappointed.

Eyleif resurfaced with a bucket-and-balance-bar contraption. “I-I need to go get some water. Actually, Ingjard, could you? I have to… feed Siggi. You know where the well is, yes?”

“Yeah, no problem.” Ingjard pivoted the bucket-bar out the front door and left.

“Where is everyone?” I turned to Eyleif, who lit a few candles and then started for the stairs. “I know Ralof is here.”

“What? No he isn’t. He’s at Markarth.”

“No, Eyleif. He’s here. What—what’s wrong? Why are you nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” she said nervously as she trotted up to her bedroom. I heard Sighulf gurgle. “Gerdur, Hod, and Frodnar moved out a while ago,” she called down. “They’re renting a house near the palace.” She descended, baby in tow. “Gerdur hates it here. Wants to move back to Riverwood, but,” she shook her head, and wild curls danced behind her head. “I don’t think anyone wants to rebuild, not until the dragons are gone.”

“I’m not sure all the dragons will ever be gone.”

Eyleif jumped, startled by my words. “Why not? They have to be. They’ll burn everything!”

“No, they won’t, Eyleif.”

The woman glowered, and returned her gaze to the nursing baby.

“Where is Ralof?” I asked again, softly.

Eyleif refrained from looking at me. “He’s….” Her mouth strained and puckered. She was holding in the truth. “He’s sick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> __**Norren:**  
>  Gard – gate/wall  
> Feid – moor/heath  
> kerlvaken - hagravens, literally (kerl + ravak)  
> mathir - man/M  
> sten - stone/S  
> bac - asshole/ass/cad/jerk  
> hjorem - horker  
> Talagen - tallows
> 
>  
> 
> __**Shouts/Dovahzul:**  
>  Laas yah nir - Aura Whisper  
> Fus roh dah - Unrelenting Force  
> Kaan drem ov - Kyne's Peace  
> Yol toor shul - Fire Breath  
> Drem yol lok - peace fire sky, a greeting  
> dov - dragonkind  
> Bah - wrath  
> Viik - defeat  
> Rek bo! Zu’u saraan. Briinah sil los dii! Zu’u—niid. Niid! Rek los ni hin, Grutiik! Iiz! Iiz! Fo ahrk iiz! Vuljotnaak naak naan rok laan! - She comes! I await. My sister-soul! I--no. No! She is not yours, Betrayer! Ice! Ice! Frost and ice! Dark-maw-eat eats any he wants!  
> Yol! Ni daar gein, Vuljotnaak! Neh! Yolseshul! Rek naak hin sil, paal! Hi bo nunon ko ek kopraan! - Fire! Not this one, Dark-maw-eat! Never! Fire of the sun! She eats your soul, foe! You fly only in her body!  
> Ek sos los dii! - Her soul is mine!  
> Yol - fire


	42. Reunions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Both sad and NSFW things within (but not at the same time)._
> 
>  
> 
> _The next chapter is even better....._

Ingjard and I stood for a while in the foyer of Dragonsreach, waiting for the Jarl to finish his daily dealings with the people of his city and his hold. We had walked to the palace immediately following breakfast. The booming voice of Balgruuf barely registered as I watched the dust particles dance across beams of light shining down from the lattice-covered windows. I wondered why dust always moved in such a manner. Was it a constant flow of miniscule debris, stirring and rising from the ground only to sink from the ceiling, a cyclic flow like an ocean current? Did dust currents churn even when no one was there to stir the settled specks?

“We didn’t have to wait, you know. She said we didn’t have to wait.”

My bodyguard was growing impatient. How much time had passed? Why no one in this damned country built sundials was beyond my understanding. Sure, many people had hourglasses, but there was no central hourglass mechanism to tell time by. _Note to self: experiment with sundials_. In places like Whiterun, The Reach, and even Haafingar, the sun shone often. Clouds were more prevalent in rainy Falkreath, and snowy Windhelm and Winterhold, and perhaps sundials wouldn’t have been useful there. It had been a trial, getting used to life without a strict schedule. _Hungry? Must be midday. Yep, sun’s halfway. Time for the midday meeting. Sun is rising? Gotta get ready for that breakfast meeting_. Yrsarald’s life was dictated by schedules more than mine was. Not knowing how much time actually passed though was both aggravating and liberating. I wrote down dates in my journal to keep track of time on a larger scale, but without the sun to approximate time passed, there was no strict—

“Deb!”

I jumped, and turned to the voice. Ingjard had half-ascended the steps leading to the great hearthfire in the center of the palace’s main hall.

“Are you coming?”

I blinked up at my bodyguard. “They called us?”

A wide-eyed glare and hands thrust up at her sides translated to, more or less, “What the fuck?” They had called us. I followed, and together we approached Balgruuf and his court, comprised of his steward, bodyguard, and another man, armed and armored, brown warpaint smeared across his face. Aside from being hefty and lacking long golden locks, the painted man looked a lot like Balgruuf.

The Jarl’s bodyguard, Irileth, had greeted us upon entering the palace, noting our business and offering us priority. I had declined. By all their shouting, puffed chests and red faces, the citizens in line to speak to the Jarl appeared to have less patience than I did.

“Thank you for waiting,” Balgruuf began, beckoning us closer.

“We did not wait long,” I assured him, not really knowing if it was the truth.

“Irileth mentioned you were at Markarth. We had a traveler come by last night with the news – I suppose yours is no different.”

“What is it that you already know?” I asked him.

“Nearly everyone was killed, that’s what I know!” The Jarl had thrust his body forward as he bellowed, but quickly realized his outburst was uncalled for and relaxed. “The boy ran, didn’t spare time to take names of the fallen or survivors. I suppose you have not, either.”

“There was no time, B—my Jarl. I was needed to help heal.”

Balgruuf narrowed his eyes and grumbled low.

“But… I….” _Breathe in. Breathe out._ “Did the boy explain what happened? How the soldiers were killed?”

“’Monsters and Forsworn’ I believe were the words he used.”

My teeth clenched, angered again at the thought. “Vampires, Jarl Balgruuf. Vampires and Forsworn, together. The attack was quick, too quick for most of the soldiers. Many are missing as well as dead.”

Balgruuf slowly exhaled the entirety of his soul. “And you… know this for certain? Vampires, truly? You have seen this? Where wereyou when this happened!?”

Swallowing hard, I avoided elaborating on the matter more than necessary. “I was traveling, Jarl Balgruuf. I had other things to do. You know this. We found the Eye of Magnus. The Psijics have it, now, and walking dead should be less of a problem. But yes, I have seen this. I have seen their bites, on the Forsworn. The vampires, they—they began to… infect the soldiers.” The Jarl abruptly turned his gaze to me. “They didn’t realize… they just thought there was an illness. Potions to cure diseases were used, but some failed.”

He straightened his posture before standing, and then walked slowly to the side, away from me. “Infected.”

“At least… some of the soldiers, yes. I don’t know how many.”

“Where did the vampires go?” Balgruuf turned to me. “Will they come here!?”

I breathed in deep. I could no longer sense the vampires, which told me they were much too far away. The energy left behind at Markarth, the signature presence of the vampires, faded once we had reached the inn with the Tiber Septim bedroom. As I was now in the center of the country, I figured this meant the vampires were nowhere close to Whiterun. I also figured there were many of them to leave such a strong presence in their wake.

“They are too far for me to know,” was all I said.

“What do you mean?”

I clenched my teeth. “I feel them… _felt_ them, just after they attacked the soldiers. I have not felt them since. I believe they are far away from here.”

He smoothed a palm across his mouth and down his beard. “And what of Markarth?”

“Empty. Many bodies, no one alive. The Forsworn, and vampires, just… left.”

“Will they return?”

“I don’t know.”

Balgruuf began to pace between me and his throne. “Proventus,” he addressed his steward, “send word to the other jarls. Explain what has happened. Tell them to notify their named persons and to prepare for a _stornegrin_ where we will vote on the new Jarl of Markarth… but we will wait for that. I want to know first that Markarth is safe. I want to know where these vampires are. I will not be responsible for the jarls of Skyrim being attacked on their way here.” He turned to me again. “I trust you can hand a letter to Jarl Yrsarald?”

I nodded. “I leave for Windhelm in the morning.”

The Jarl approached and clutched my upper arms. His face was long, and somber. “You have been to High Hrothgar?” he asked, eyes sparkling.

“I have.”

An upward twitch of the mouth broke through the man’s stone expression. “Was Arngeir still there? Did you remember me to him?”

I managed small smile. “I did, Jarl Balgruuf. There was also Borri, Einarth, Wulfgar, and a young man named Uthyr. I… I think I may return there, someday.”

Balgruuf nodded. “Good. Good.” His palms tapped my arms and he turned away, settling back into his throne. “You are staying with my Thane, again?”

“I am.”

“I will have a letter for Yrsarald sent there before the evening.”

“Alright.” I bounced several times, nervous. “Ehh, Jarl Balgruuf?”

“Mm?”

I worried about the man’s reaction, but he needed to hear the news.

“It’s… about General Tullius.”

. . . . . .

Ralof and I sat alone once more in the basement of Eyleif’s house. The man was turned away, refusing to show his face to me again. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this. Once he had seen his own reflection, it had taken Eyleif’s stubborn nature for Ralof to allow even her to look upon him.

“I didn’t know what to do,” my friend had said after I forced my way into the basement. “I didn’t know, so I fled home. I feared Eyleif might kill me on sight. I couldn’t know what she would have done, once she saw…. But, it didn’t matter.” His voice quieted. “I needed to see her.”

As soon as Eyleif had told me Ralof was sick, I knew. My blood boiled at the revelation, and I had to suppress the urge to throw something. I had been distracted by my own fatigue at the time, but the way Eyleif had said the word slapped me across the face. ‘Sick’ – a glossy term, if there ever was one. ‘Sick’, as if Ralof had the damned flu. The jolt woke up my instincts, my sixth sense that knew what was around me, be it birds, elves, or the undead.

Running down the basement stairs, I had known, but knowing hadn’t prepared me for seeing with my own eyes the beautiful face of my friend distorted by dark magic and disease. Ralof had been expecting Eyleif to be coming down the stairs again, and had looked up. I saw everything.

Sunken cheeks. Sallow skin. Bleeding, flashing yellow eyes. A blood line traveling from nose to chin.

Ralof had looked away immediately, horrified, shouting for me to leave. I had paused my descent, muting a shriek with my gloved hand. _That couldn’t be been my friend,_ I had thought. _Surely that is just some creature resembling my friend._

“Ralof,” I had whispered. “Oh, Ralof….”

My oldest friend in this world was a vampire. He had been infected, he thought, about two weeks ago, but not from a bite. He was never bitten, he claimed; he had Eyleif search for bite marks.

He didn’t know how it happened, but one morning he and several other Stormcloaks woke up with a severe headache, and had to remain inside a tent, eyes pained by the sun. Some even called it heat exhaustion. Eventually they thought disease had stricken them and others, and no one thought more of it. Healers were brought in, potions were used, but only some people got better. When Ralof became ill at even the thought of bread and water, he thought some Forsworn curse had been laid upon him.

His final evening at the camp, Ralof had been awakened by the sound of muffled slurping. He looked around the recovery tent, no candle necessary to see despite the darkness, and found a pair of yellow eyes glowing back at him from above the neck of some Imperial woman. The lustrous metallic aroma of hot blood pulled at his tongue, and he had ached to kill his companion and stealing his meal. The thought had horrified him, but he gave in. The desire was simply too strong.

Finding he was no longer weak, he fled that night up and across the mountains that divided The Reach and Whiterun holds, propelled by newfound strength and urgency. _Eyleif_ , he had kept thinking. _Eyleif must know_. He practically flew, he was so fast.

She had been sleeping when Ralof arrived shortly before sunrise after two nights of running, and taking shelter by day. He could smell them, his family, in their bedroom.

“And my boy,” he had said to me, “my boy smelled as sweet as”—he paused, leering at me over a shoulder—“almost as sweet as you.”

He kept his distance, always, from Eyleif, Sighulf, and from me. He refused to feed, refused Eyleif’s selfless offer for him to drink from her or from their chickens. But the longer he went without blood, the more desperate he felt.

“Even as I sit here, now,” he muttered, “all I want to do is rip out your throat and drink.” He curled into himself, tugging at his mussed hair. “You smell too good. It-it’s too much. Please,” he half-turned, “go. I don’t want to—just, go.”

“Alright, Ralof. I’ll go, but… there’s someone in Morthal. Falion. A Redguard mage. He told me that he was helping vampires to be cured. He said he knew how, but there was a… he had to wait, for something. I don’t know what. There were vampires in his house, waiting for the right time.”

I approached my friend. I needed to see his face again, diseased or no. But, more than that, something drove me, a need to be near him, a need for him to be near me. I put my hand on his near shoulder, begging him to face me. His hand gripped my wrist and jerked toward his mouth, and he dragged in a long, open-mouthed whiff of my lower arm. I let him do this, and hesitated a moment before defending myself. A gentle shock of lightning magic shook him off. He turned to me, horrified, pouting.

“I told you,” he said, turning away again. “Please, go.”

“Morthal, Ralof,” I repeated. “Falion.”

He didn’t respond. I pulled out the sealed envelope Gerdur had given me for her brother and set it on a side table before sulking my way up the stairs.

. . . . . .

Stenvar and Selina planned to stay together in Whiterun for a while before Stenvar headed back to Dragon Bridge to take care of his property and find new tenants. Selina was still a city guard at Whiterun, but she had been given permission from the guard captain to assist us. She would remain in Whiterun, even while Stenvar traveled. I wondered if the two would get together again, or if their intimacy was a temporary affair.

Stenvar knew the road to the north between Whiterun and Windhelm was not a rough one, and also a road that I had traveled before, so he made little fuss about me and Ingjard traveling by ourselves despite the danger of ‘Forsworn-vamps’, or ‘ _fireithursothen_ ’ _._ Initially he had planned to escort us to Windhelm, but I refused. Of all people, I was the one who should be able to detect incoming vampires, and I was more than capable of protecting myself and Ingjard with Shouts. It was Stenvar I worried for, and I told him so. I convinced him to stay in Whiterun for a little while longer. If something should happen, if the city was attacked, at least he would have a suite of city guards and Companions – and a werewolf – to protect him. Him, traveling alone back from Windhelm, was not acceptable to me.

The reality that the vampires at Markarth had decimated a small siege army was not lost on any of us, but the vampires had slowly weakened and possibly infiltrated those soldiers. That was unlikely to happen to a wary city population. Probably.

Nobody, including myself, had any idea where the vampires and Forsworn were, and nobody knew how many there were. Meridia was silent. Arkay, through the priest Andurs as well as his shrine, was also silent. Talos and Kyne were silent, too. I took comfort in the knowledge that Elodie never warned me about anything bad happening after Markarth, unless, of course, she had expected me to repel the attack there. This was a very real possibility, and it nagged at my conscience. It wasn’t so much the guilt that hundreds of soldiers were dead or missing, but rather I was angry that vampires were out there, somewhere, unalive. I was angry that vampires had slowly infected an unknown number of soldiers before the slaughter. I was angry that no one noticed, calling it just another disease. I was just angry. But I ignored the seething hatred I had begun to feel at the thought of the undead, and instead forced myself to think upon the reality of future possible attacks.

Balgruuf had word sent to various outposts in his hold to watch for signs of vampires. Stenvar wrote to Olfina, and Brelyna was meant to get word to Darius and Sharash. I hoped that Darius, Meridia’s newest, or rather only priest, would be able to do some good. Perhaps he would continue what Elodie had begun and build an army of undead hunters. Though, admittedly, that was probably my lot in life, to wander around Skyrim, setting zombies and vampires on fire. That, however, was not the life that I wanted. Not in the least. Despite my desire to kill zombies and draugr and vampires alike, I also wanted Yrsarald. I wanted children. I wanted to set up a museum, perhaps in that place Calixto housed all of his artifacts, if it was still free.

I had a home, I had a family, and after one last trip to High Hrothgar that I sorely needed to make at some point, I was going to _stay_ home. I was only one woman, after all. I would remain in Windhelm, and do what I could to protect its people.

. . . . . .

It took six volunteers wielding three wheeled carts to drag all of our crap from the Windhelm stables to the palace. My trunk, left locked in Eyleif’s house, had been undisturbed. Thankfully, all that we had did not weigh down our poor packhorse Odin too badly. He was such a patient old guy.

A crowd had gathered in front of the Palace of the Kings; they were barred from entering by a wall of guards. Unintelligible shouting filled the air. Mostly comprised of Dunmer, the mob ignored us, and carried on their pleas, or perhaps protests.

“What’s going on?” I asked one of the boys who was pulling a cart.

“Oh, they’re still upset about Maleni.”

“Who?” Ingjard asked.

“Maleni Sadri. Daughter of that elf, there.” He pointed to a tall, thin Dunmer woman with a mohawk who seemed to be leading the mob in their shouting.

This couldn’t have been good. “What happened to her daughter?”

The boy looked behind him before answering, quietly. “It was Rolff. The drunkard. He killed her.” He looked away again. “Can I go, now? Y-you don’t need to pay me.” I had barely begun to nod when the boy bolted from the palace steps.

The other cart pullers eyed the fleeing boy, but stayed where they were. I turned to Ingjard, concerned, but the woman had become restless, wanting inside her home, and was standing on her toes to assess the commotion. She then put two fingers in a circle to her lips, and blew. The piercing whistle barely broke the din.

“Damn it,” she cried. “Do your thing,” she said, turning to me, meaning a Shout of some kind.

“I’m not going to Shout at these people,” I responded, glaring.

Ingjard groaned. “Alright, then I will shout.” The woman gently but firmly began to carve a path within the mob, yelling for everyone to make way for the Dragonborn. The crowd members eventually heard her and stepped back as she wedged her way between people. Most of the screams and yelling from the mob had quieted, and instead, whispers lined the way as I ascended. The cart-pullers followed close behind.

Inside, I could hear a man, a Dunmer it looked like, yelling at Yrsarald, who sat forward on his throne. Jorleif was hunched over his small desk, furiously taking notes. Calder stood directly behind Yrsarald’s left side, armed and armored. The bodyguard was the first to spot me, and he bent and whispered to Yrsarald.

My partner looked up immediately, but the Dunmer continued his speech. Yrsarald made to stand, but I held up my hand and offered him my best understanding smile, hoping he could see the expression despite the distance. _Stay_ , I wanted to tell him. _Deal with this_. He relaxed back into his throne and looked again to the Dunmer, then back to me. Ingjard finished paying the cart-pullers and caught up with me, and we quietly exited the main hall, making our way upstairs. Ingjard was carrying one of my heavier, larger bags while I managed two knapsacks. Staff would transport the rest.

Unloaded, Ingjard let out the longest, groaning sigh ever sighed, and announced she was headed to the bathing room. I however walked straight to Bird and Marcurio’s bedroom. The door was closed, and so I knocked, gently, three times with a knuckle. I hadn’t bothered to shed my armor. Good thing, too. My friends likely wanted to see me wearing it. I leaned against the inset stone wall in front of the doorframe, waiting, but no one answered. I knocked again, louder. Nothing. A quick burst of life-detection magic confirmed their absence. Figuring they were out on the town somewhere, I headed back to the Jarl’s quarters.

My private bath was a luxury compared to the tubs I had bathed in over the last few weeks, when I had the chance to bathe at all. I must have scrubbed three times with our scented soap and various cloths and brushes, reheating the water with magic as needed, all the while wondering when Yrsarald would find his way upstairs.

The gravity of the situation, that a Dunmer girl had been killed by Rolff “The Drunk Racist” Stone-fist, Galmar’s brother, was not lost on me. If I had to guess – and it wasn’t much of a guess, knowing Yrsarald – Rolff had not been executed for his crime, which was the usual sentence around here for murder. The man was probably jailed, sure, but killed? No. Yrsarald was friends with Galmar, and Galmar was in Solitude. Why else would the girl’s mother, and others, be protesting and yelling? Perhaps the Dunmer of the city wanted revenge. Perhaps they wanted more than revenge. I would have to wait and find out.

For now, all I wanted to do was relax in flower-scented warm water. I laid back my head on the broad tub rim, and sighed.

 

“ _Champion….”_

The soft voice caressed my half-asleep mind. I smiled, but ignored Ingjard. I wanted to sleep; she would get the hint.

“ _Champion!_ ”

The bark jolted me upright, eyes wide and vision blurry. I blinked and rubbed away the sleep and looked again. “Ingjard… where—?”

“ _Champion! Hear me!”_

I turned to look for my bodyguard, but she wasn’t there. No one was there. Steam and mist had filled my private bathing room to the point of obscuring anything beyond an arm’s reach. I stood and grabbed my towel, and headed for the one opening window. My hand made contact with warm stone where I had thought the window was.

“I’ve been gone for too long,” I muttered, annoyed. Gliding my hand along the wall, I searched for the window, but it was not there. “What—”

“ _We are not in your palace_ ,” the same stern voice explained.

I gasped, and my hand lifted from the stone, pausing mid-air. “Meridia.”

“ _This is your space within one of my rooms: White. A realm within a realm, within a realm, and so on. Here, anything is possible.”_

The clouded room shifted in a swift series of blurs to the river where I had bathed while with Thrynn and Siv and the other outlaws, followed by Eyleif’s dining area and then to a bedroom I’d never seen before, to the guest room of Stenvar’s house in Dragons Reach, and finally settled on my apartment’s living area. My apartment… in Boulder, Colorado. I was naked, wrapped in a purple terrycloth towel, in my apartment in Colorado.

“I’m… ehh….”

“ _Mora needs to rape your mind to learn of what you know, but not I! Sit.”_

Gulping, I sat on my ugly green sofa, and clutched the towel around my chest.

“ _You have done well, Champion, but your work is not yet finished.”_

Dread filled my very being, but in my heart, I knew she was right. Vampires. _Vampires!_ Fury and betrayal pressed my fingernails into my knee.

“ _Arkay and I need you. Skyrim needs you. If you fail, the world will suffer._ ”

Breath quickened, I fixed my gaze on a half-full wine glass on the coffee table. White wine. A bottle of something German stood open next to the glass. “You mean the vampires?” I asked, already knowing the answer. “Where are they?”

“ _Far to the northwest. They move fast, Champion. Fast through the night, and if dark, by day. By the time you travel to where they are now, they will have moved on. They are stronger than most, these creatures. They are not feral, but they are just as vicious. You must destroy them before it is too late, before there is no one left.”_

“I—alright, but… if they move fast, how do I find them?”

“ _Listen within. You will know_.”

Instinct. But how reliable was instinct when facing a horde of vampires, particularly when magic failed to locate them? “What should I do?”

“ _Go to High Hrothgar, and go quickly. Finish your training. You must perfect a Shout that—“_

 

A splash and the sensation of being thrust upwards woke me from a pleasant dream where I was enjoying a nice Gewurztraminer while watching some weird science fiction movie. Though the bathing room had darkened – I had neglected to light candles earlier – I knew that Yrsarald had plunged into our large, deep tub, joining me. How long had I been in the water? For how long had I slept? The memory of my dream was quickly fading, and all I remembered was a cozy sofa and wine.

The water had turned moderately cold, but Yrsarald’s approaching heat combatted the slight onset of shivers. Broad, strong hands encased each side of my face and my lips were claimed, pulled to his in a locking kiss. His knees flanked my thighs, holding me in place. Faint groans of pleasure and relief rumbled from my lover’s throat, and I heard myself whimper, feeling the same. Yrsarald leaned back and gripped my waist, pulling me to a seated position on the single ledge of the stone tub. His lips remained on mine as fingers caressed the parts of me most missed. Face, chin, breast, hip, inner thigh, buttock. He squeezed and massaged, dug in fingernails and soothed. His lips left mine only to find my neck, and he sucked and nipped at the lonely flesh. I heard him inhale, taking in the scent of my hair and skin. Again, he pressed his lips to mine, and quickly made up for time lost.

A single thick finger pressed between my legs, readying me for more. I moaned into him, one arm around his shoulders and another at our sides, clutching his upper arm. I let him please me, let him do what he wanted, knowing that the acts were pleasing to him, too. His mouth drifted to my neck again, and I moaned, louder.

I lowered my right hand and cast a simple fire spell, maintaining the magic until the water became comfortably warm again. Yrsarald grunted, and chuckled. His fingers became more restless, and smoothed their way inside me. As his hand moved forward and back, slowly, his thumb caressed the sensitive nub above. Though lacking a certain amount of necessary friction, the roughness of Yrsarald’s thumb and enormity of my need made for a quick rise in pleasure. I gripped the man again, thrusting forward to meet his hand. Teeth nipped at my shoulder. His free hand grabbed a fistful of my hair. Moving faster, Yrsarald grunted through vicarious pleasure. I breathed his name.

His submerged hand slid away from me to aid in lifting me up, and he pulled my thighs over his shoulders. Arms, elbows, and neck braced against the rim, my backside was supported by Yrsarald’s hands as his mouth clamped down between my legs, tongue licking and prodding as he pleased. My brain let itself worry about the awkward position for only a moment before pleasure overrode thought, and my cries and moans muted my doubts.

Yrsarald was relentless. His broad tongue lapped and circled, alternating rhythms but never ceasing. I felt him moan. Though I ached for him to fill me, I couldn’t bring myself to stop this.

My eyes closed tight. I saw pleasure. I felt sound. Static bursts of energy flashed like a race of unprogramed televisions. My body trembled. My blood fired. My head rushed. I couldn’t move. I screamed melodies that sounded like his name. My body convulsed. Yrsarald only pulled me in closer to his mouth.

“Please,” I rasped, “Yrsa, I c-can’t— _nnghf—_ too much. Yrrrsa!”

I felt his upper body jerk with a laugh and, grinning, he lowered my backside into the water. He dove into me again, eager to share my taste.

His beard was thicker, somewhat, not unkempt but rather uncut. It tickled terribly, but I was glad for it. I was glad for all of him.

Through our kiss, I pushed to one side, spinning us around and positioning Yrsarald on the submerged ledge. I kneed my way close to him, and we shared a grin before he leaned down to kiss me again. My hands smoothed up his legs, feeling his fuzz tickle my palms. The water would have covered the waist of most people, but with Yrsarald, it barely reached his hips. I broke away from our kiss and lowered my gaze, letting the proximity of him fill my eyes. Yrsarald dug his hands into my hair and inhaled, breathing me in. As I regarded his form, my hands caressed his inner thighs, and I watched as the tip of his erection broke the surface of the water. Yrsarald leaned back and spread his legs wider.

Admittedly, I was hungry. Pleasing Yrsarald in this manner did not happen often simply due to his size, but I loved the act. Wasting no more time admiring the visual, I reached one hand forward between his legs and leaned down. Encouraged by a deep groan, I continued to lick circles around the swollen glans. Unfortunately, Yrsarald was far too wide to take completely into my mouth. He understood, never whining or complaining; he was more than satisfied by everything else.

Both of Yrsarald’s heavy hands held the back of my head. His fingers wove into my damp, loose hair, aiding in my movements. Craving more of him, I took in what I could, sucking harder. One of my hands caressed his side from chest to thigh while the other remained submerged, teasing and tugging at delicate flesh. Yrsarald was humming between whispers of my name. My own desire was rebuilding quickly, but I wanted to continue pleasuring him for just a little while longer.

Yrsarald’s body, however, disagreed with my plans. The firmness I had been caressing with my mouth slowly diminished, but not because Yrsarald had peaked.

I straightened my back and moved my hands to the man’s thighs. Yrsarald squirmed. He flexed the fingers of his left hand, forming a fist and then curling his fingers around the brim of the tub. He sighed, and looked away, brow furrowed.

I reached up, cupping a cheek in my palm. “Is everything alright?”

Yrsarald slowly moved his head from side to side. “No,” he admitted, weariness heavy in his voice. “I need to get out of here. It’s just… it’s becoming too much, this business with Rolff. Oh, ehh… Rolff Stone-fist killed someone.”

I frowned, already aware.

“A woman,” he continued. “A girl, actually, by Dunmer years.” He squirmed. “Helgird says that she was raped.”

This I did not know.

“The girl’s body was found not six days ago. And, more than this, there are some who claim that Rolff and his friends have raped other Dunmer in previous years. And yesterday, a floor collapsed within a home in the Gray Quarter, a home that was supposed to have been repaired, recently.” Yrsarald groaned and rubbed his face with his palm. “The murdered girl’s uncle, he’s the representative for the Dunmer. We have been talking for months, and all was good. But today….” He shook his head. “Rolff is in the dungeons. I will not execute the brother of Galmar without him knowing about it, or when there is doubt. No one saw anything. Everyone just assumes it was Rolff.”

“It probably was, Yrsa. Rolff is horrible to Dunmer, and now he hurt someone. He should have been stopped years ago. Punished somehow.”

“He is an ass. I know he is. But I love eating pies – this does not mean I should be blamed when one goes missing.”

I sighed. “Is there any sort of—what is the word—trial? Ask the gods for the truth? Perhaps Helgird may be able to know. Sometimes priests of Arkay know things.”

“Yes, there are trials. But I cannot go through with those now. Not yet. I am getting,” he breathed in, deep. “I am becoming undone. I need to shift – not here. I need to go to my cave. I have not,” he grunted, “I need to… hunt.” He struggled to say that last word, appearing disgusted with himself for even speaking it as if admitting to a biological need was a horrible thing.

Though I shouldn’t have, I grimaced. “I thought you did not like to do that? Hunt. Be a werebear.”

He finally turned to me. “I don’t. I don’t like to do that. But when I get like this, and shifting in my bedroom for a short while is not enough, I need to hunt. If I do not, if I ignore this, I will become unsafe.” His hands covered mine, pressing my palms firm against his scruffy skin. “Come with me?”

I eyed him for a moment, a bit unsure of what to say. “But, Yrsa, you can’t just… run.” I paused, considering. “Can you? I mean, you’re Jarl.”

“It is not as if jarls never take time to themselves. Do you think even Talos never took a day to relax?” He lowered his hands to my waist. I stood and then sat on his lap, and we wrapped our arms around each other. “I need to go,” he continued. “Not for long, several days only. I can call it urgent business in eastern Eastmarch. Windhelm is not my only charge. No one will question me.”

I pursed my lips, doubtful. “Someone probably will question you, but you’re right. Everyone deserves some time to themselves, and the holds are all big places with many things to care for.”

“Please tell me you will come with me. I need you with me.”

“Of course, Yrsa.” I smiled, and kissed him. I then realized Yrsarald likely had not heard the news yet. I broke away from him and bit my lip.

He eyed me, and sighed. I could see the disapproval in his gaze. “What? That face never means a good thing.”

“It’s… Markarth. The soldiers there, they….”

Yrsarald closed his eyes. “Please, do not tell me they broke the weapon rest.”

“No, no, Yrsa, they’re… they died.” His eyes shot to mine. “Not everyone, but…. There was an attack at night, coming from the city. Forsworn and vampires, together. So many died, Yrsa.” My voice cracked. “And Tullius—Tullius is dead.”

His stunned expression told me he knew the implications of the general being deceased, and of many Stormcloaks and Imperial soldiers killed, too. I watched as the man’s thoughts fired, planning the future both immediate and distant at unmatched speed.

“How many of our men fell?” he asked. He meant Stormcloaks.

“I don’t know. The survivors are only now coming to other towns. But from what I saw, perhaps one hundred, total, are alive, Stormcloak and Imperial.”

“And where did the vampires go?”

I sighed. “I am not certain. They left before we arrived at Markarth. I felt them until we had traveled about a day, so I think I might be able to feel them when they are a day’s ride away. But I don’t… I don’t know if what they did to those soldiers is what they can, what they will do to others. I don’t know if there is one vampire or one hundred. I just don’t know. But, such a strong feeling after they leave a place… there must be many. I tried to ask Meridia but she is silent. All of the gods are silent.”

He closed his eyes and breathed deep. His jaw clenched, and I could tell he was fighting off something other than tears. “I have,” he began, “I need to meet with people, send letters.”

“Yes. And Balgruuf – I have a letter from him, for you. The jarls are to meet in Whiterun, to talk about Markarth, and a new jarl for the hold.”

He nodded. “When?”

“I don’t know. He said everyone was to wait, to make sure Markarth is safe, and to learn where the vampires are. I’m sure that is in the letter.” I kissed Yrsarald’s brow. “Oh, and, you should know, we found the Eye, and the Staff of Magnus. They…,” I took another breath, “they were in my world.”

Yrsarald’s shock held his tongue.

“There were portals. Two. The first, it took us to Atmora. It was so cold there, just… snow and ice and wind, everywhere. Stenvar and Ingjard followed. I was so _angry_ with them for following – they did not know they would live.”

“But you knew that you would live?”

I nodded. “I knew. I was… I was being called into the portals, by something in my own mind. But the second one… the second went to my world. The Thalmor – some Thalmor – they put a ward around it and protected only themselves. Elodie thinks this Summoner helped them, because she is, or was, a Psijic Monk. Elodie is now with the Psijics…. But only I was able to go through. No one else, because it went to my world, and Akatosh protects me from all wards, even the most powerful. I can cross wards without harm. Powerful magic protected the elves when they went through to my world, but in my world, of course, there is no magic. Nothing. They were killed by people from my world... people who lived a very, very long time ago.”

“Not your time?”

“No… no.” I frowned at the possibility, of what I would have done had the portal opened up to the correct century. For now, I let the thought go, not needing to think upon any more ‘what ifs’.

“There was no magic there,” I continued. “Only the Eye and Staff worked, somehow. I think Magnus… perhaps Magnus exists… everywhere.” I shook my head, and Yrsarald swept a palm over his left cheek and jaw. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to know. But it is over. All of that is over. Elodie was pleased. The other Psijics with her were pleased. They went… somewhere… with the Eye.” I frowned, deliberating on whether or not to tell Yrsarald about what I had seen in the eye.

“What is it?” he asked, noticing my unease.

Still not looking at him, I breathed in deep. “In the Eye, I saw… lives. Lives of people I knew, sometimes me, or people in places I knew. Most of the things I saw could not happen. Ulfric holding a child, his child; me and my former husband in my world, with me birthing a child. Those things cannot happen, now. And there were things that I had seen in dreams, more impossible futures. And still, other futures that can happen. I saw you, older, on your throne, here.” I swept fingers through the hair at his slightly salted temples, remembering his hair whiter, longer, in the Eye’s vision. “I think you will be fine as jarl for many, many years.” I kissed his cheek. “Even with upsetting things, like with Rolff. A great jarl.”

He held me close, but refrained from speaking more. From the tension of his muscles, I could tell he was still stressed. I would have to give him a massage, later. I then recalled that I had not yet told Yrsarald about Paarthurnax, or my dragon protector, either, and laughed nervously. “Oh, ehh….”

“Hmm?”

“There is—I-I… have a… dragon… friend.”

“What?” he voiced, flatly.

“He protects me. Has protected me. Three times! But he has not spoken to me.”

“Spoken to you!?”

“No, he has not, but he needs to. I need to know why he is helping me. And, since he will not tell me, I think I need to ask… well, another dragon.”

“Another dragon.”

I bit my lip again. “You can keep a secret – I know you can. But, this… this is not my secret, Yrsa, this is the world’s secret. You cannot say this to anyone. Ever.”

He hesitated, briefly. “Alright.”

“I need to hear you promise.”

“I promise, Deborah. You know that I do. What is it?”

“At High Hrothgar, on the mountain….“ I inhaled, nervous, and whispered my revelation. “There is a dragon.”

Yrsarald’s eyes narrowed. “On the mountain.”

“Yes.”

His face grew angry. “Did it hurt you?”

“No! No, Yrsa, he’s my friend.”

“Your friend.”

“He helped me fight Alduin.”

“Alduin!?”

“It’s fine! I am fine. Though, Paarthurnax lost a horn…. Alduin is still alive. He only wanted to remind us that he does not fear me.” _Asshole_.

Yrsarald rubbed his face and forehead, clearly exasperated. “So,” he began, “you need go to High Hrothgar and talk to your dragon friend about another dragon friend.”

I smiled. “Yes.”

“When will you go?”

“I don’t know. Soon? With the vampires… maybe not now, but soon. My body is telling me to go. I need to learn… perfect some Shouts that I cannot yet… create, or can only create partially.”

Yrsarald’s chest rose with a deep inhalation and he gathered me in his lumberjack arms, pulling me close as he exhaled. “Alright, my Dragonborn. If you must, but please, not yet. I would prefer you here for a little while longer. For me, and to advise me about the city’s troubles. I think the people would like this, too.” His kissed my forehead. “But first let us go to my cave, and then quickly home.”

I kissed Yrsarald’s cheek and gazed at his distant, worried expression. “Should I go tell our house-servants?”

“Mm, no, not yet,” he answered, holding me tighter. “Not yet.”

 

After cuddling for some time in the tub and developing an all-new level of prune, I stood before our tall mirror, studying the length of me for the first time in months. I stared, recognizing no one.

The woman’s face was angled, not round. Her neck was thin, accenting a defined chin and jawline. Her collarbones were obvious. Her breasts were average-sized. A hint of extra skin rolled across her abdomen, but her hips and thighs lacked a certain amount of pudge. Even her eyes were alien.

Yrsarald stepped up behind me and kissed my shoulder. And then my neck. And then my ear. His hands swept over my hair and upper body before holding my waist. I moved my gaze to his glorious form, noticing a slight reduction of his belly, and smiled at the little braids he had put in his beard.

“You look wonderful,” I breathed, wishing we could simply hold each other forever, live and die in our bedroom, not a care in the world.

“ _You_ do.” His hands traveled elsewhere.

“No,” I countered. “I don’t see myself, anymore. Who is this woman?” I frowned, tugging at my triceps skin that only had a minimal jiggle. “I can’t remember being such a small size. Not for a very, very long time. Very long.”

“Hmm. You are less soft, yes.” His hands didn’t seem to mind, caressing my less squishy body, squeezing, testing, just for good measure. “No matter.” He sniffed my hair again. “Are you eating enough?”

“Yes, of course. I am always hungry, especially since—oh, I… I killed another dragon.”

Yrsarald stood up straight, gazing at my reflection. “Truly?”

“Mm. Ingjard and I… and my dragon friend. This dragon had a strong hunger. Now I have a strong hunger. I don’t know if this will go away, or not. Viinturuth never—well, not never, but—I don’t know. Things are different, this time. I control Vuljotnaak. He doesn’t control me.”

“What are these words you are saying? ‘Defeat-cult’ never? I control ‘night-charm’? I think I misheard you.”

I grinned, and turned around, letting my arms drift over his shoulders and hands dangle behind his head. “Dragon names. Viinturuth. Vuljotnaak. They are inside me, now. Their souls. I think they are forever part of me. But they cannot control me.” I brushed Yrsarald’s nose with the tip of mine. “Paarthurnax taught me how.”

“’For-law-shoulder’ taught you?”

I laughed, and kissed my confused man.

. . . . . .

“You’re alive. Good.” Wuunferth’s heartfelt greeting was touching. Really. “Shame you did not arrive two days ago. The boys and the kid left for Riften.”

“Riften? Why?”

“Mother, family, and so on.”

I sighed, and plopped down on one of Wuunferth’s stools. “Yes, I forgot Marc’s mother lived there.” I watched as Wuunferth shuffled around the room, walking stick in one hand and dust cloth in the other.  “What happened to your leg?”

“Oh, nothing but my age. Magic only does so much for an old hip.”

“Are you able to heal it yourself?”

The old mage chuckled. “The boy’s healing magic is stronger than mine.”

Wuunferth’s reference to Marcurio and Bird, thirty-four and thirty-two year old men, as ‘boys’ only made him appear all the more curmudgeonly. “I can heal, too, you know,” I reminded him.

“ _Neh_ ,” he grunted, and continued to hobble around, tidying. After a while, he mumbled what sounded like, “There have been fewer ghosts, you know.”

“Do you think so?”

“Well,” he grunted, replacing a large, dust-free soul gem cluster back onto a shelf, “in the many years I have lived, I have been visited by a few dozen ghosts. Most of those visits happened in recent months, and stopped not very long ago. I assume this means you and Elodie have done what you set out to do.”

“We have. The Eye and Staff of Magnus are safe, with the Psijics.” I frowned, and sighed. “Elodie is with the Psijics.”

Wuunferth nodded his approval.

“Meridia’s temple is clean, now, and The Summoner and her army of zombies is finished, too. It was not easy… one of my friends died and another,” I blinked away tears that were threatening to spill, “she lost an arm to ice magic.” I was still unable to shake the guilt, even if it was somewhat misplaced upon myself. I should have been there. I should have stopped Fa’nir from jumping The Summoner, should have blocked the blow that shattered Jenassa’s arm.

“ _Ogina_ stuff, ice magic,” Wuunferth muttered, “even without magic strengthened in some manner. An ice spear can carve a hole into a body as wide as a fist, and I assume your friend’s arm was shattered.”

“Yes. Exactly that.”

Wuunferth clicked his tongue and shook his head. “You yourself are being careful, I trust.”

“Of course I am. I have also been lucky.”

“Luck! _Puh_. The protection of the gods is not luck, my dear, and neither is skill.” He neglected to speak more on the matter, and I watched him align shelved potions.

“Yrsarald and I are going to leave for a few days, to his cave.”

“Mm, yes, I thought he had been shifting more in his bedroom, lately.”

I winced. “You truly do know about him, then?”

“Any idiot would know he is not human. Yrsarald is just lucky most people are idiots.”

I pretended not to hear that last remark. “Ehh, you should know that there are some vampires somewhere, I don’t know how many…. They are fast and powerful, but they are far, for now. They killed most of the Markarth soldiers. Do you know the detect-undead spell?”

Wuunferth flashed me an insulted look.

“Alright, well, I just wanted you to know. I need you to protect this place while I am gone.”

“I am not the only mage in this city, and I certainly do not need you to remind me of my duties.”

The man’s snapping words hurt somewhat, but I let the matter go, and changed the subject. “I… I think I might have created a new spell. A ward orb. Do you want to see it?”

Wuunferth finally appeared pleased, and he turned to me, waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Stornegrin - moot, jarl meeting_  
>  Fireithursothen – Forsworn-blooder  
> Lund – grove  
> Neh – nah/nope  
> Ogina - dangerous


	43. Heart Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Good feels songs for this chapter are “Be the Song” by Foy Vance and “Empire” by Shakira :)_  
> 
> **NSFW**

Yrsarald and I were joined by Ingjard and Calder, as well as ten extra guards. We traveled light, only packing enough food for the road to his cave and back… plus a little extra.

The cave was about a day’s ride from Windhelm, and half a day’s ride from Kyne’s _Lund_ – or Kynes _lund_ , as I realized after looking at a map. ‘ _Lund_ ’ meant something like ‘grove’, if I understood Yrsarald correctly. At the small town, we were to leave behind our companions and head for the hills, literally. The guards did _not_ like this idea one bit, but Yrsarald’s word was final, and I assured everyone that I would sense the vampires long before they were near. I also promised to Shout like hell if we were in danger, a sound Ingjard would have recognized. Only our horses were invited, though we were to leave them at a small distance from our destination. We worried otherwise that they would be spooked by Yrsarald’s… activities.

The cave itself was not terribly spacious, really more of a deep rockshelter. The opening faced west, and was warmed by the setting sun. Artifacts of Yrsarald’s previous stays were still in place, left undisturbed by any other person, or critter.

“My scent keeps the animals away,” he claimed.

“Your scent? Do you smell different from other people?”

He grinned. “Not like this, I don’t.”

I smiled back, and set my knapsack on the cave floor. “Shall I light the fire?” Yrsarald grunted approval. Near the cave opening was a shallow fire pit lined with cobbles, and gathered just outside were piles of deadwood and chopped branches. It didn’t take long to get the fire going with gentle magic. It also didn’t take long for Yrsarald to strip out of his clothes.

“I’m going,” he announced, passing me and exiting the cave. The sunset light haloed his impressive body, backlighting his dense body hair into a rich auburn glow. God, I loved that man’s body.

I walked up behind him, cupping a fuzzy buttock and giving it a squeeze. He smiled down to me and kissed my forehead. “Later.”

Grinning, I reluctantly let his buttock go. “Where will you shift?”

“Right here.”

“For how long will you… will you hunt?”

He groaned, stretching his arms. “I don’t know. Until the morning, at least. Perhaps the afternoon. You will be alright here, by yourself. I have never seen any person near here, not even hunters. The animals do not come here. For good reason.”

“I will be fine. Though, I don’t know how much sleep I will get. I do not think the vampires will come here, but….”

“I doubt anything will. It has always just been me and the birds, here. But, you can always come with me. Ride me out into the woods, watch me eat a deer.” I found him grinning wildly. He was joking. Probably. “A waterfall  and pool is just to the left, down the hill. I will bathe there before I come back to you.”

“Go, Yrsa-Bear,” I teased, laughing, “and wash the deer from your beard before you return.”

Yrsarald chuckled and knelt, preparing himself for the transformation.

. . . . . .

When I woke, startled from a dream, dawn had just crept up from behind the eastern mountains. Birds welcomed the encroaching sunlight. The breeze, still fresh, encouraged me to tuck myself inside my fur blanket. _A furrito_. I laughed at myself.

The dream had felt real, as dreams sometimes did. A bear – not Yrsarald in beast form, but an actual bear – had come to the cave to sleep at my back, keeping me warm. Wondering if Yrsarald was in fact behind me, I reached back, but found only air. The stone, however, was warm. Body-heat warm, just as the stone beneath my bedroll was. Beyond my sleep space, the stone was the same cool temperature as the air.

“ _Sneaky bastard_.” Yrsarald had come back to the cave – he must have. I had been asleep, or perhaps half asleep at the time, and he had left before dawn. Perhaps he had still been in his beast form. He must have been, otherwise he would not have left me again.

The pit fire smoldered and barely gave off any heat, so I held my fur blanket around me and trotted out to the front of the cave for more wood. My magic obeyed my command, igniting the broken branches. I had a sudden craving for marshmallows.

“Oh _goddd, s’moresss_ ….”

I groaned through my futile desire and half-crawled to my knapsack to pull out an apple. Staring at the smooth green skin, I had an idea. I dropped my blanket and left the cave to search for a long, skinny, fresh stick. Finding several, I broke off the end of one and shoved it into the apple. With another stick, I drilled it into a piece of bread. I propped the food up by the fire and waited for my toast and roasted apple.

A small kettle, filled with last night’s boiled water, was heating again so I could make some tea. An iron skillet of sorts rested near the small fire, but I wasn’t sure what I had to cook on it. Perhaps Yrsarald would bring back some fish.

Most of the time, Yrsarald cooked the food he caught for himself when out here. Last night, this morning, was a special occasion. He would feed his inner beast, and eat anything he killed as any other carnivore would. He hated himself for this, but as we talked about it on the way to his cave, I realized something about how he viewed himself had changed. Yes, he found this side of his nature revolting and dangerous, but he no longer wanted to punish himself because of it. Much of his life he felt that he would never experience or even deserved to experience life as other men did – love, family, and so on. He had never told a lover about this side of him before me, not even Okrith, whom he had loved. But because I, of all people, was ultimately accepting of his biology, he had shed some of the resentment and self-loathing he had carried since childhood. There was no more talk of fear regarding children and what they might be, for instance. I accepted Yrsarald for what he was and, slowly, he did, too. He worried that no longer wholly fighting his second nature would become a problem, but he still planned to pray to Talos and other gods for the strength to refrain from shifting, especially involuntarily. That hadn’t happened since the Great War, anyway, though it had almost happened the day Ulfric was killed.

With me home, he claimed, he would be more relaxed. He was not subtle in wishing that I could retire from ‘Dragonborning’ immediately. Admittedly, I wanted that, too.

The toast and roasted apple was not nearly as satisfying as a s’more would have been, but settled my stomach nonetheless.

As I waited for Yrsarald to return, I busied myself with practicing some spells. In particular, the undead-specific, circular ward that Darius had taught me. I could cast it, but the circle always faded quickly. Apparently, this particular spell took about as much energy as my ward orb. Wuunferth admitted he had never seen such a spell, but wasn’t surprised that it was possible.

When I tired of magic, I pondered Shouts. I longed to ask Paarthurnax about the relationship between dragon magic and mortal magic, if they were linked, somehow. Fire, ice, fear, and telekinesis at least were all something Shouts could do. Aetherius must have been the key. If the two families of magic were linked, then I was certain that a spell could be transformed into a Shout. What if I could heal with a Shout? Drive away the undead? The latter possibility excited me, especially now. In my journal I scribbled down ideas, but also listed the various spells, techniques, magical words, dragon words, and even scrolls that might be useful in accomplishing this sort of thing. Unfortunately, I didn’t know the dragon word for ‘undead’, but that didn’t mean I could not concoct a relevant Shout.

I made several more small meals for myself by the time the sun hit its zenith. Occasionally I would cast Clear-Seeing to find Yrsarald’s location, and the direction of the magic changed every time. He was still moving around, at least. Alive and moving. Each time, the possibility that he could be otherwise was not lost on me.

Finally bored, I reached into my knapsack and pulled out the amulet of Mara I had wrapped in a ‘spare shirt’. After fiddling with the clasp, I draped the heavy pendant over my chest and examined it upside-down.

Yes. Today. If not today, when? As soon as Yrsarald returned, I would showcase the item in front of him, and wait to see his reaction. One of shock and glee, I hoped. Marcurio said that Yrsarald would not say no, but I was still nervous.

Someone’s voice broke the monotony of distant birdsong. I looked up at the entrance, but saw no one.

I whispered, “ _Laas_ ,” but saw nothing but a few birds. Birds and fish were apparently the only animals near the cave that weren’t afraid of werebear scent. I forced myself to concentrate, to let the Shout tell me what was out there, and it told me there was a non-threatening person nearby.

The voice remained distant and unclear. It was a man’s voice. I exited the cave, and smiled when I realized the voice belonged to Yrsarald.

He was singing.

 

Yrsarald was standing under a gentle, sun-lit cascade, letting the water cleanse his body of life’s recent stresses. His hair, normally a light brown-red, shone a deep auburn upon coming into contact with water, just as my mousey brown hair turned almost black. His broad, muscled, and modestly scarred back was turned to me. The story of the man’s life, though partially erased by periodic shifting into his werebear form, was written on the flesh canvas. The water of the pool came up to just above his knees, allowing quite a view.

I stood behind the foliage, wanting to savor this serene moment. It was possible that the man could smell me, despite him being under falling water, but he didn’t show any sign of being aware of my presence. He was still singing. Though I couldn’t make out the words, I did hear something about a honeybee. His singing voice was as deep as expected, and I realized I had never heard him sing more than a whispering lullaby to Flavia. He was shy.

I smiled as I took in the sight of him, my partner. Despite being forced to sit on a throne or at a desk nearly all day, every day, he had made it a point to keep in shape. _Nothing worse than a fat and lazy Jarl_ , he had said. I knew that what he truly meant was, _Nothing worse than a fat and lazy Nord_. It was a nationalistic sort of pride, these Nords held. They were born toilers, warriors and farmers. The only Nords I ever met who worked indoors were forced to by injury or duty, or because they boasted a particular mental skill over the usual physical prowess. Nord Nobles rarely participated in physical labor, though that did not mean they were of a particular intelligence. Yrsarald fell into two categories – injured and mentally skilled. He was a planner, my Nord, always thinking three steps ahead of everyone else. He even thought he might have a one-up on the gods and Daedra Lords, thinking it possible, even in a small way, that he might escape an afterlife in a place he had no desire to be.

Though Yrsarald was still thickly built, he had lost the weight he put on during my pregnancy, and perhaps lost even more due to recent stresses. Not just his gut was trimmer. This I found odd considering the man was an emotional eater just as I was, but his natural biology perhaps allowed him to eat a feast daily and not gain an ounce so long as he exercised a bit. Indeed, I knew his favorite physical release was smashing logs and tree stumps with warhammers. Repeatedly. I had sometimes watched him do this, but I would never forget the first time I witnessed this activity.

Sweat glistening. Bare-chested. Cheeks flushed from exertion, but also perhaps embarrassed from being watched. Trousers riding just a hint too low....

I watched Yrsarald’s muscles tighten and relax as he curved around his body to scrub the hunt off of him. I was entranced by the bulbous, fuzzy rounds that were the man’s buttocks. Indeed most of his body was dusted in at least a reddish peach fuzz if not something slightly more dense, everywhere except his shoulders, and the usual places humans didn’t grow hair.

 _My fuzzy bear man_ , I said to myself, smiling _. I love each and every inch of you._

Yrsarald then turned, unwittingly showing me the rest of his lathered body. I would never get over the sight of even his flaccid penis, of how attractive and impressive it was. He was a ‘shower’, thankfully never growing much bigger, and even boasted an auburn lion’s mane to frame its beauty. I fought away the urge to jump into the shallow pool and pounce on the man, to ravish his body and lick him dry.

 _No_. _You have a plan._

I waited to reveal myself until Yrsarald had finished scrubbing with the small linen cloth, and had finished singing. Once he was quiet and simply rinsing off, I stepped forward, no longer making an effort to mute the rustling of leaves.

Yrsarald turned, appearing pleasantly surprised to see me. His smile shrank somewhat, however, when I stepped up to the mossy edge of the pool and into a patch of light. I had seen that look in his eyes before, a look that conveyed nothing short of awe and wonder. He had made that face the first time he had seen me mostly nude, five months pregnant. For whatever reason, my breasts were capable of entrancing the man.

This time, however, I was fully nude, wearing only the amulet of Mara. The round, cold pendant nestled between my breasts. Yrsarald was speechless, standing still under the cascade. I watched as he closed his half-open mouth, as his jaw muscles clenched. It might have been a trick of the sunlight shining down from the canopy, reflecting off the water and onto him, but I thought I saw a certain appendage do a familiar, tiny dance. I took my first step into the pool, and then another, unabashedly walking up to the astonished man. This time, I was the planner, and I wanted to win this battle.

Yrsarald’s gaze dropped from my eyes to my chest, ogling either my breasts or what lay between them. I knew that he would know what it was, what it meant. That was the point. My dear friend Marcurio was an excellent cultural advisor on all things Skyrim.

I took one final step until I was just beyond an arm’s distance from the man before me. I let him stare, let him register the visual memory I was offering him. It was only fair, after all, after spying on him. I couldn’t help but smile at his wide-eyed appreciation.

“Yrsarald,” I finally spoke, breathing his name only loud enough to hear above the gentle falling water. He finally stepped out from under the cascade and into the speckled sunlight. His hands immediately found my hips, but my hands pressed against his torso, enforcing a distance. Falling into him was not part of my plan. Not yet. I peered up at the man, deliberate in keeping my lips away from his. I took a step back and grasped his hands, and then let our joined arms hang between our bodies.

“What—?” he rasped, and cleared his throat. “What are you…?” His gaze again dropped to my chest. “Why are you wearing… that?”

“I was told,” I began, taking my time, recalling my planned script, “that this is what someone in Skyrim should wear when they want to marry. It also helps with this.” With our hands joined, I was able to send a warm, healing light around both of our bodies. The unneeded magic had a different effect when perfectly healthy – a very pleasant one.

Yrsarald’s eyes found mine again; I watched the lump of his throat bounce as he swallowed.

“Yrsarald,” I said, again using his full name rather than my usual abbreviation, “I love you.” My words were barely more than a whisper. Despite having planned this moment for weeks on end, I was so nervous that I was trembling. “I know we have been apart for some time before now, with only letters to continue to… ‘be together’… but my feelings for you have not changed. I don’t think they could ever change, or go away. I think it impossible. I have never loved anyone as much as I love you; not even close to this.”

My breath caught, and I knew I was beginning to cry. _Damn it_. “I…,” I gulped, willing myself to go on. “Yrsarald Geiraldsen, I….” It happened. I was crying. _No, no no no…._

I heard Yrsarald’s chuffing laugh, and felt his hand cup my tear-streaked cheek. He kissed my forehead, and then bade me look at him, at his smiling eyes.

“That is not how it is done,” he said, calmly, his beard spreading in a wide grin.

I choked. “What?”

“That is not how it is done, with the amulet.”

I wasn’t sure if he was being facetious, attempting to lighten the mood, or if he was actually correcting my behavior.

“You wear the amulet of Mara.” He backed away slightly. “I see it. I say, ‘Ysmir’s beard! That cannot be an amulet of Mara between your divine breasts, for a woman as beautiful and perfectly strange as you must already be claimed by a man much more handsome and worthy than myself’.” He was grinning ear to ear.

Facetious. He was definitely being facetious. For me. I had never before seen him so silly, going so far as to put on a strange accent for the act. My smile was so wide that my cheeks began to hurt.

“And then,” he continued, “you would respond, ‘do not think of yourself so lowly, Yrsarald, dear; I wear this amulet for you and you alone. You are as perfectly strange as I am, and for this and many other reasons I wish to make you my husband’.”

I was laughing through my tears. The man could be such a goofball when he wanted to be.

The last thing I expected was for him to drop to his knees. Both of them. The water hid his lower body from me, and staring down at his naked form was less distracting. Unfortunately, he was now staring up at my very naked form. I knew I was blushing.

“What are you doing?” I asked, laughing again.

Yrsarald swept his wet locks out of his face and smiled up at me. “You are not the only one who can ask about traditions from your lover’s land. I spoke with Marcurio months ago, before you left for Whiterun.”

Wholly embarrassed and excited at the same time, I hid half of my face behind a hand and shook my head. “One knee,” I said, still laughing.

“Hmm?”

“It’s done on one knee,” I elaborated. “Two seems as if you are begging, and you do not need to beg me.”

Instead of heeding my advice, Yrsarald gently but effectively maneuvered me in such a way that I fell into his arms, my butt grazing the water in the process. I giggled as the man stood. He walked us over to the pool’s edge, and only let me down once we were on mossy, solid ground. Standing tall in front of me under the shade of trees, Yrsarald grasped my hands and picked up where I, and he, had left off.

“Deborah the Red, I, too— why are you laughing?”

I had already been giggling, but had again begun to laugh at the strange utterance of what was the Norren equivalent of my surname. Clearing my throat, I forced myself to calm down. “Nothing, nothing, I’m sorry. I am nervous.” I giggled again.

“Stop laughing,” he said, grinning and chuckling as well.

I could think of only one cure for our mutual giggle-fit. I wrapped my arms around the man’s wet, freckled shoulders and kissed him. What had started as a quick peck quickly escalated into a passionate embrace. His arousal became evident.

“Wait,” he breathed the command, breaking away. “I have not asked—“

“I’m already yours,” I whispered, brushing my forehead and nose against his. “I was the one who was going to ask first, remember?”

“Well, then…” He smiled as he brushed a hand against a breast to eventually feel the design of the amulet I wore, ultimately letting his fingers travel back to the breast. “Ask me.”

I bit my lower lip, mustering the courage that had completely diminished. “Yrsa?” I whispered.

“Hmm?”

One of his hands had found a hip, and the other cupped the side of my face. His rough, warm thumb caressed my cheek. After a very deep breath, I continued. “ _Skul da eras mina eigm—?“_

His lips were on mine, not letting me finish my proposal of marriage.

How rude.

He swept me up in his arms again, something the man had a habit of doing despite my non-petite frame and his unreliable lower back. Not walking far, he laid me down onto the damp moss at the pools edge. The green cushion was warmed by the rays of sun that the gaps in the canopy let through.

Once settled, Yrsarald again cradled my cheeks in his palms. His gaze was steadfast and serious. “Yes,” he whispered, “I will be your husband, if you will be my wife, and marry me in front of Mara and all of the gods, our friends with us to celebrate.”

I smiled, knowing what he meant. Yrsarald wanted a proper wedding, to marry me in the temple of Mara in the town of Riften, far to the south. “I suppose then you won’t just go with me, now, to Riften or any priest of Mara we find?”

Yrsarald shook his head. “Not Riften. Jarls do not travel to the temple; the temple travels to the jarl. And, I can wait. To do it properly, I can wait.” He smiled, and his hand again dropped to the amulet, fingers running along the filigree metal design and over the central turquoise gem. His hand then claimed a breast, and he ran his fingers over its own central gem. He leaned down and kissed my forehead, my cheek, my jaw, my lips. His eyes found mine. “My intended.”

I was beaming. “My intended.”

Yrsarald’s hand swept through my loose hair, spreading it out from under my neck, no doubt entangling fluffs of moss into wanton tresses. His lips found mine again. They were forever warm and soft, the lips of someone who worked indoors and had easy, constant access to healing potions and two mages. He used wax lip balm, as well. His beard tickled, but I didn’t mind. I couldn’t imagine him without facial hair. And then I accidentally did imagine him without facial hair and giggled against his mouth.

He backed away somewhat, bracing himself against the earth. “What? Was I tickling you?”

I was still giggling. “No. I thought of you without any hair on your face.” I attempted to still my laughter as I fondled his fuzzy cheeks and jaw. “Please don’t ever, ever shave.”

Yrsarald smiled and I giggled yet again, and pulled him back down to me. His embrace was far more passionate that time, wrapping his hand around the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. The amulet slid back and forth at times between my breasts, but I was more attuned to the feel of the man’s dense chest hair brushing against my torso and nipples, tickling and yet providing the most comforting warmth. I lost myself in the sensation.

A tiny, involuntary whine sounded from my mouth when Yrsarald’s lips left mine, but my longing was sated by feeling his lips on my neck. He didn’t stay there long. I felt the warmth of his mouth on my shoulder, followed by playful nips, and again a gentle, soothing kiss. Yrsarald was taking his time; there was nowhere else to be, no commitments made until the day after tomorrow when we were to leave this place. We were alone, free to do whatever for however long we wished, and Yrsarald took this brief allowance of indulgence to heart.

I gasped. The sudden enclosure of warm lips and fingers on sensitive nipples contrasting with the cool forest breeze was startling. I moaned when he gently grasped the rigid bud between his teeth. He moaned, too, confirming the firmness I felt on my thigh as a response to the pleasure he was giving. My hands found his wet hair and I passively held him in place, a silent beg for him to continue. Where his lips remained, his fingers did not. Feather touches trailed down my abdomen and ended in the cleft between my legs. His muscles quivered in anticipation; even his erection danced. Cruelly, he took his time, slower than he had ever progressed before. I whined, groaned, squirmed and gasped in turn, gripping his damp locks even when he moved his mouth to the other breast.

And then his hand was gone, leaving me open to the forest. Another cool breeze swept over us and I felt it tingle against my wetness. I shivered, but only partially from the chilled air. I opened my eyes to find his, darkened with desire, gazing down at my face. He was defiant. _Not yet_ , said his eyes. _Not anytime soon._ He then slid down, lips leaving a trail along my flesh before his mouth disappeared in my depths.

Yrsarald was often deliciously languid with his tongue, and today was no exception. Yesterday’s urgency aside, deliberate movements were only his grand finale; everything else was the most exquisite, slow build. In those brief, surprising moments where his lips or tongue found what ached for them, inevitable cries of pleasure and jerking, shuddering movements of my body were unavoidable, and intense. The man’s tongue had the endurance of a marathon runner, and at times I had been forced to beg for release. He usually complied, except for those rare occasions when we tortured one another in this way. Our play was sometimes simply too unhurried for either of us to manage for very long, the emotional and mental repercussions too intense. Because of the man’s natural stamina, one of the many qualities of his werebear heritage, multiple orgasms was something we both experienced, often. I was amazed and utterly impressed at the way Yrsarald could hold back his own ultimate release but still experience one orgasm after another. If it weren’t for healing magic and certain flower-extract oils, we would have always walked around painfully chafed.

His strong tongue again flicked against the swollen center of my pleasure. I cried out, uttering “please” half a dozen times. My only answer was a slight vibration from his mouth, a moaned response – _not yet_.

 _Damn you,_ my frustrated mind cursed.

Sliding, slipping, smothering, sucking. The intense yearning was edging in on dire need. My breathless lungs protested, but my mind knew the process was necessary. Yrsarald’s size was substantial, and I needed to be ready.

Here on a sporadically-illuminated bed of moss, trapped by Yrsarald’s strong arms wrapped around my thighs, all sense of place and time was lost. Moans didn’t matter. Squeals and groans and growls were ignored by the odd butterfly, dragonfly, or bird. Perhaps that raven I saw took notice of the curious, ruddy bear feasting on the bald deer. The feathered critter soon fled, though, startled by my exuberant cries.

Finally, pressure. Fingers slid within while a thumb caressed without. I felt Yrsarald drift above me once again. He wanted to watch me, my face as I was finally given release. My eyes refused to remain open, however. My body was shaking, toes curling, mouth dry from being forced open in desperate gasps. My neck muscles strained as they were pulled too tight by my back’s erratic movements. Fingers thrust into me even after my crash, prolonging every sensation for just a tad too long.

Too much. Too much. I cried out, and grasped Yrsarald’s hand, forcing it to still. I shook my head. _No more,_ it said what my mouth could not. _No more, or I will surely explode._

Not letting me harness my breath for too long, Yrsarald kissed me, his tongue searching in earnest for mine. I felt his stiffness strike my inner thigh as he repositioned himself, ready to claim his own pleasure. His legs spread mine further, and still kissing me, he entered.

The movement was easy, unrestricted. Our moans drowned out the sound of the waterfall. Continuous, rhythmic, mutual. Yrsarald pushed himself up above me. His arm muscles bulged as I gripped them, holding on lest I be shoved inch by inch along the damp moss toward a tree trunk. I forced my eyes open, only managing brief glances. I wanted to watch him.

His body was mesmerizing, and the sight of his chest and torso moving against me was glorious. With each slow, long and deliberate thrust, his pelvic bone hit just the right place, teasing. I savored the sound of his growling, quiet moans and the view and feel of his flexing muscles. Though the weather was brisk, he had begun to sweat. I wondered how long he would last, this time. Our potions were inside the cave and healing magic could only ease so much of friction’s consequences.

Yrsarald lowered himself down again, tickling my chest with his. My hands found his upper back and my fingernails dug in. My only warning of his next move was clenched muscles, lasting but a second before he flipped us over into his favorite position. His hands gripped my hips, pushing me up and then pulling me down. I reached up toward a low-hanging branch and grasped its rough bark. It was thankfully sturdy enough to hold my weight.

It was coming, already – my second release. With the help of the branch and Yrsarald, I quickened my pace and screamed out my lover’s name toward the forest’s canopy. Beneath me rumbled deeper, muted moans as Yrsarald, too, found release. As expected, I had felt no warmth enter me after his climax. I laughed joyously, letting myself recover, for the moment.

The respite was short-lived. I soon found myself on my knees, bent over, cheek grazed by microscopic, tickling leaves, and Yrsarald wasted no time in joining with me again. My favorite position. Though I couldn’t watch his beautiful body without straining my neck and back, I delighted in the way he could lose all physical restraints and ravish me from behind. He was incredibly agile on his knees, despite one of them paining him half the time.

Yrsarald maintained a moderate pace at first but soon increased in speed, thrusting shallow but with more force. I felt fingers between my legs and soon I was shuddering again, wailing toward the shallow pool, fingers tearing into the delicate green blanket. I lost myself in the pleasure. I wasn’t anywhere. I wasn’t anyone. I was simply love and passion and ecstasy.

“Fuck me!” I squealed again and again in the Norren way. Yrsarald obeyed and became a human hammer, anchoring my hips to prevent me from flying away. I reached back with one hand and grasped his, my silent signal for him to not stop, to go on as long as he could until he released inside me.

I thought I climaxed a fourth time but I could never have been certain. The pleasure was overwhelming, all-encompassing, visceral. And finally, Yrsarald’s true release began. The man roared behind me as his thrusts slowed but intensified in power.

The birds must have been terrified.

Yrsarald held me in place for a long while as we stayed there, coupled, panting. We then fell apart, collapsing onto the moss. I was on my stomach, and soon Yrsarald was, too. He wrapped an arm around my back, perfectly content to lay with me, recovering. The pendant of the amulet had been rocking back and forth, jostling between and sometimes slapping against my breasts. Now it was right in front of my face, and I stared at it with crossed eyes until I dragged my hand up to move it, turn it about, hold it at a better angle for ogling.

“Where did you get it?” Yrsarald asked, shifting his position a bit in order to run his fingers along the pendant’s edge.

“Marcurio. He has friends and family in Riften.”

“They are expensive. Did he buy it for you?”

“He called it our wedding gift.” I turned on my side to face my intended husband, and ran my fingers across the pattern of his bear paw tattoo. “What happens with the amulet now? Do I wear it always?”

Yrsarald smiled. “No, you don’t have to wear it, not anymore. Some choose to wear it until they are finally married, but it isn’t required. Most people keep it in a locked box, forever. But, the amulet is enchanted, for healing, because that is what Mara does – she heals. Well, not in the way you do, but,” he grinned, “with _love_.”

I chuckled at Yrsarald’s use of the English word ‘love’.

Yrsarald retained his smiling gaze for a while and then stood with a groan. I caught him favoring his bad leg, but only briefly. “Come,” he said, his hand lowered to help me up.

We walked, hand in hand, the short distance back to his cave, both weak and wobbly.

 

Once dressed, we sat just outside the cave entrance, the fire and a cool evening breeze competing against one another. We were lying on a fur blanket, my head resting on his chest, listening to a mixture of our breaths, his heartbeat, and the twilight forest sounds. Eventually the stars came out, bright as ever, and Yrsarald attempted to help me see the constellations.

“My star sign is the Thief,” he said, raising his hand to the sky almost in my line of sight, attempting to show me the stars involved.  
  
“Thief? You are too big to be a good thief.”

Yrsarald chuckled. “The star sign does not make me a thief. It may not make me anything. But it is said that those born in Evening Star are luckier than most.”

I gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I am the lucky one.”

My intended gave the back of my hand a kiss, and then lowered our joined hands onto his chest. “I have a different opinion on who is the lucky one.”

My giggle was nothing short of goofily gleeful. “In my world, my star sign was the bull. It meant I was… stubborn, and loved food.”

Yrsarald’s entire body shook and vibrated with an outburst of laughter. “That is you! Yes, I believe it. What would mine have been in your world?”

“Hmm.” I tried to recall the month equivalents, and then the span of time the dates of the zodiac governed. “The… ehh, there is no word for this creature, here. It doesn’t even exist in my world, but there are stories. It is the archer, but also, a creature with the head and chest of a man, and the body of a horse. Four legs, a tail, but human chest, arms, and head.”

“Gods…. The child of a man mating with a mare?”

It was my turn to laugh. “No. I… hope not, anyway. No…. But, those people are said to be… fond of travel, and adventure, and are usually happy. They also,” I laughed again, “they also are meant to enjoy many lovers, not marrying just one.”

“Hmph. No, that does not sound like me.”

“No, it does not. Perhaps the stars we are born under truly do decide who we are. Or it is merely a coincidence. Here, though… here, I was born in Rain’s Hand. And remade in Sun’s Dusk. Both months have mage signs.”

“Yes, they do. That does not sound like a coincidence.”

“No,” I agreed. We lay in silence for a short while until I spoke again. “I’m sorry, I interrupted you. Where is this thief in the sky?”

Yrsarald again pointed with our joined hands to the stars. “Eye,” he said, pointing to what looked more like a planet than a star. He then moved somewhat down, “chest,” down and right to another bright star, “key,” down and left, “dagger,” up somewhat and further left, “lockpick.”

“Is the ‘eye’ a planet? Not a star?”

“It is Arkay’s light.”

“Arkay? Arkay… is a planet?”

Yrsarald chuckled. “No. That is him. That is how we see his true form.”

I sighed internally. “That is what people in my world… well, no. They did not think that… ehh, or, maybe they did, at first. I don’t know. The planets in my world’s sky are named after gods, but we know they are not gods. They are made of rock, air… ice, I think. We have sent… things onto at least one of them, a thing that can see for us, and pick up things from the ground, like rocks. Our planets are not gods.”

“Or is that just how the gods in your world want to be seen? As elements.”

I smiled and elected to drop the matter. Without a spaceship, a remote-controlled rover, satellites and telescopes, I would never know whether or not Arkay was simply a blob of rock in space. “Where are my signs?”

Yrsarald analyzed the stars for a moment before raising our joined hands. “The Mage, the star sign for Rain’s Hand, is there. The little yellow one, the eye, is Julianos, another god.” He pronounced the “J” in a curious way, struggling, not soft but rather like the French “ _je_ ”. “The brightest one,” he continued, “is his hip. There are many stars, but there, to the left of his hip, are the many stars of his robe.” His pointer finger traced a rectangular outline. “His two hands are raised, there,” he moved up and left, “and there,” far to the right. “He holds a staff in his right hand.”

“And my other sign. Sun’s Dusk?” I tried to remember the word for the sign. “ _Atrium_? No, that isn’t right.”

“ _Atronach._ It’s,” he scanned the sky again, “there. Many stars in the shape of an egg.”

“No planets?”

“No, only Akatosh is also in a star sign.”

I re-nestled my head again against his chest. We listened to the sound of the valley – the gentle breeze, the little creek, the hoot of an owl.

And then something tickled along my right first finger. I swatted myself, thinking it was an insect, but I had brushed against something rough, as well as Yrsarald. I lifted my hand to see what it was I had touched.

It was a ring.

A single, small sapphire, fastened to a band of gold, glinted against the firelight.

“Yrsa….”

He grasped the hand, squeezing gently. “Marcurio knew a lot of things about your customs. He also knew you did not like diamonds. And I knew your favorite color.”

“But, Yrsa, how much money does this kind of thing—“

“Do not worry about that.”

I sighed, but was distracted by a shimmer crossing over the metal. “It’s enchanted.” Another enchanted ring, only this one was not previously Yrsarald’s.

“Mm. A gift from Wuunferth. I still do not understand how enchantments work sometimes, but this one is supposed to increase the strength of your armor.” He kissed my temple. “So, even when I am not with you, I can protect you.”

I felt my ears blush, and I smiled. “Thank you.”

Yrsarald pulled me closer and inhaled the scent of my hair. “I’m going to marry you,” he whispered.

I chuckled. “Yes, you are. Ehh, is there a… a special dress I should wear?”

“Do not worry about that.”

“Hmm? Why not?”

“One is being made for you.”

I turned to face him. “Already?”

He smiled, and nodded. I eyed him scornfully, but he just laughed. “You will like it, I promise.”

“Do women not plan their own weddings, here?”

“There is a tradition to weddings. Marcurio and Bird have already started to plan ours.”

“That— _ugh_.” I grumbled, and shook my head. “Well, Marc knew we were both going to ask one another.”

“He is a clever man. He and Bird will do much of the planning so that you and I do not have to. They will return from Riften soon. We will wait to decide on a date, wait to learn more of these vampires… but spring is always best.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It will be.”

“And then,” I grinned, “children?”

Yrsarald smiled. “We did not prevent that possibility today.”

My fingers drew designs into his chest hair. “No, we did not. But… perhaps, I do not want to be with child for a wedding. If my dress is being made now, it might not fit. And I might feel awful. I don’t want that.”

“Do you have that tea with you?”

“Mm, yeah. I drank it this morning. It is not a—it does not mean I will not become pregnant, though.”

He kissed the back of my hand again. “Continue to take the tea, then, for now. I will begin drinking mine again tomorrow.” His special tea, made from a root, quelled the urge to shift, usually. “Tomorrow… I will have more energy. I do not need to shift again.”

“Well, then. We should eat our dinner and get plenty of sleep tonight.”

Yrsarald sat up and reached out a hand to bring me forward for a kiss. He then pulled away with a loud, popping _mwah!_ and pressed his forehead to mine. “I love that you love food as much as I do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Skul da eras mina eigm—? - Will you be my husb(and)?_  
>  Laas - life
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> [art by Mykso](http://scriptrixdraconum.tumblr.com/post/107762710873/skyrim-yrsarald-and-deborah-by-myksomatosis)
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> [art by Chenria](http://scriptrixdraconum.tumblr.com/post/113985131813/darksideofchenria-commission-for)


	44. Force

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I set up a blog on Tumblr dedicated to just updates/teasers/asks etc about this series. Username:[hero-series](http://hero-series.tumblr.com). My main blog is username: [scrptrx](http://scrptrx.tumblr.com/). Most posts will be cross-posted, as the sub-blog is intended for people to easily track story updates without being overwhelmed by other stuff._
> 
>  
> 
> _The entire series is now completed. I just need to edit the last 3 chapters and make sure I’m happy with everything. I will be able to keep up with this weekly schedule until the end. There are 48 chapters in all._
> 
> _Thank you for your continued interest in this story. I truly appreciate your participation, and I hope you continue to read Deborah’s journey when I get around to writing and publishing Book 3. (There will be short stories preceding the next novel). Again, thank you. I am so, so sorry that I had to do this to you._
> 
> _**Content warnings:** NSFW, and violence/injury/blood._

A briskness woke me. Though my back was warmed by a churning Yrsarald, the mountainside morning breeze swept over the burnt-out pit fire and assaulted my naked flesh. Shivering, I pulled the fur blanket over my breasts and held it close.

Behind me, Yrsarald chuffed and yawned, and groaned as he stretched. He then turned onto his side and pulled me close before attacking my neck with his grizzled beard. I laughed through my unconvincing protest, but Yrsarald’s tickling kisses segued into gentle nuzzling, and I relaxed. The man’s mouth and chest vibrated in a faint growl, another of his usual morning noises. Tiny kisses caressed the nape of my neck, sloping lazily to my shoulder. Yrsarald untucked the fur blanket from between us, and by a telltale rigidity, his arousal was apparent.

A hand slipped forward under the blanket, wedging between my body and forearm to claim a breast. His strong nose, pressed against the back of my head, inhaled.

“What do I smell like?” I asked him, voice still rough from waking.

Yrsarald hummed. “Lightning. Flowers. Dawn.”

“Dawn?”

With another chuff, his teeth found my earlobe and bit gently as his hand massaged both breasts, grazing perked nipples.

“What does dawn smell like?” I asked him, needing clarification.

“You tell me.”

I twisted toward him, raising a brow at his suggestion, but played along and smelled the air. I pondered the scents briefly before answering. “Like a… gentle fire”—I grunted as fingers tugged hard on a nipple _—_ “chasing the sharp cold away.”

He chuffed. “Good.”

“You agree?”

“Mm.” Yrsarald continued his oral caresses of my ear, neck and shoulder as his hand slid from my breasts to grasp my left buttock. Gripping flesh, he pulled upward, making room for his erection. I titled my pelvis as he slid his body somewhat lower. A slow thrust forward sent the thick glans and shaft between my legs, not entering, but sliding and pressing against my own aching arousal. His hand returned to my breasts, and I held it there.

Each lazy thrust had me whimpering, wanting more than just a teasing stroke, but Yrsarald continued his languorous movements. His hand traced the slope of my body from my breasts to between my legs. With one finger finding its target, he had me juddering with a sudden increase in sensation. I dragged my other hand down from above my head where my arm had been outstretched, and I clamped down on both my breasts.

Hot breath tickled the moisture left behind on my neck from Yrsarald’s kisses. “I need you ready for me,” he murmured, maintaining his slow thrusts, drawing out our pleasure.

Voice quavering, I managed an answer. “I’m ready.”

“Are you?” he asked, finger pressing harder as it circled my clitoris at an ever-quickening pace.

I moaned, shuddering against his warm body as I felt an orgasm approaching. My breaths were ragged. “How… long… can you do… this?”

Yrsarald chuckled and his fingers held position, instead letting the movement of my hips grind against his touch. “That depends,” he answered, and stilled his thrusting. “How many satisfactions do you want today?”

Satisfaction. It was the Nord euphemism for ‘orgasm’. I hated the term, because every time I heard ‘satisfy’ and related words in conversation, I had to suppress a giggle, including this very moment. Instead, I grinned as I turned my gaze behind me as far as I could. “Enough,” I breathed, “to make up for four months away from you.”

The man huffed a laugh. “So, a lot, then,” he concluded, grinning.

I chuckled, and faced front again.

Yrsarald recommenced his external thrusting, faster than before. Two fingers dipped low and up again, my slickness aiding in their delicate, circling caresses. I felt weak, helpless against Yrsarald’s touch. I mindlessly rolled my nipples between thumb and forefinger while emitting small sparks alongside warm healing magic.

“When you come,” Yrsarald rumbled, breath unsteady, “you smell like a thunderstorm.” Quickly becoming undone, I had no response to his claim; I believed him, anyway. “Come for me,” he whispered as his fingers whirled around my clit. He kissed the slope of my neck, and strengthened his thrusts. He growled as his muscles tightened, holding back his own climax. “Come for me, De-eborah.”

With Yrsarald’s broken utterance of my name, I fell into him, wailing with release. At the first sign of my orgasm, Yrsarald finally pushed himself inside me, and maintained his efficient manipulations. Though the thrusts were slow and shallow, they were firm, and he continued the movement well after my body ceased trembling.

I laughed, and then groaned, still filled by Yrsarald’s girth again, and again, and again.

He chuckled, moving his hand back to my breasts. “The day has only just begun, honeybee. If we can, I will have you every way I know how.”

Smiling, I craned my neck, searching for my knapsack. “I like your thought,” I said. “I have an idea.”

 

Yrsarald and I lay panting side by side on the cave floor, foot to head, his left arm still curled around my upper thighs.

“How,” he breathed, “was that?”

I huffed. “Ho-orrible. Felllt… nothing. Let us”— _grunt_ —“never do that again.”

Yrsarald rumbled in low laughter and gently smacked my side with the stone phallus. “I still cannot believe they had this made for you.”

“I have good friends.”

He chuckled. “So, which do you prefer? Stone is harder, after all,” his fingers near my backside tickled my skin, “and is more reliable than flesh.”

“You before stone,” I groaned as I sat up and curled close at his side, pressing my ear to his heart. “You, always. _You_ are warm.” I kissed his chest. “So warm. I missed that.”

Yrsarald brought the tip of the stone phallus to my mouth. I grabbed it from him and smacked his torso, but he just snorted and grinned. “Why did you bring it with you?”

Giggling, I laid down the phallus behind me. “I did not intend to. It was still in my knapsack.” I took Yrsarald’s hand in mine. I inspected its freckled back, and then kissed its palm. “Did you get lonely?”

He grunted a yes.

“Did you…,” I smiled, surely blushing. “Did you touch yourself?”

Another grunt.

“Often?”

Yrsarald collected me into his arms and kissed my cheek and mouth. “Yes,” he finally whispered into my ear.

I nestled my head into the crook of his neck and let my free hand explore his chest and torso. “Do you feel better? After hunting?”

“Mm, yes. You, here, certainly helps, too.”

“Good.” _Torso fuzz, torso fuzz… glorious, glorious torso fuzz._ I stared at his tattoo, and a worry came back to nag me. “Do you know what will happen, now, with Tullius dead?”

“No, I don’t know what will happen. Though I wonder if the next _stornegrin_ will also discuss the weapon rest, whether or not it will continue.”

“What if it does not?”

“If it does not, we will continue as before. There are more Generals where Tullius came from.”

Frowning, I considered the future. “I want to be there, at the meeting, if I am allowed.”

“You would be welcomed at Dragonsreach, at least. This much I know.”

I turned to gaze up at Yrsarald, laying my head on his chest. “You mentioned you and Balgruuf writing to one another.”

“Mm.”

“Balgruuf wants to be High King, doesn’t he?”

Yrsarald turned to me. “Why do you ask this?”

I smirked. “Rumors in Whiterun.”

He sighed and lay back, gaze returning to the cave ceiling. “It is supposed to be secret.”

“So it is true.”

He nodded. “We began discussing this in Whiterun, before the _stornegrin_. Balgruuf would be a good High King; he even has the blood of kings in him. If he had not promised to approve of me being Jarl of Windhelm, I would still think this. He wants the civil war to end. He wants Talos worship to be legal. He fears the Thalmor, yes, and is not sure Skyrim should be free from the Empire, but he is still the best option for a High King. Everyone has seen how he acted at the _stornegrin._ ” Yrsarald breathed deep. _“_ What you said at the meeting, about working with the Empire but not being _in_ the Empire… that interested him. It interested others, too. I can’t be certain, but this may be discussed, too, at the meeting.”

I wished all of this information were comforting. “This is all good, Yrsa, but I am more worried about the vampire attack. The civil war should not be started again if vampires are as big of a concern as zombies were before. And dragons are still attacking, too.”

“Dragons are a worry, yes, but I do not think they are flying around and making more dragons…. We will see what becomes of these vampires, and of the Forsworn you think are with them. And, we will need to see just how many soldiers were lost at Markarth. Perhaps it is not that many.”

“I saw many, many bodies, Yrsa.”

“We will see.”

Just in case, I tested again my Clear-Seeing magic, to see if I could locate the Forsworn-vampire hoard. Nothing, not even a puff of blue flourished in response. “I cannot be found by magic; perhaps these vampires are the same. This is very strange. Perhaps it is a kind of Forsworn magic.”

“Perhaps.” He began to stroke my hair. “Do you think Torug was among them?”

I pondered the possibility. “I can’t know that. There are rumors of him traveling with a group called The Blades – I think I told you about this.”

“Yes.”

“Dragon hunters.” That reminded me…. “Have the Thalmor been a problem, lately?”

“No. They have been very quiet.”

“Hmm.”

“Yes. Hmm.”

“You are worried, too?”

He nodded. “I am worried, too.”

We napped for some time, confirmed upon waking by the shifted light outside the cave, and by my dreams. They again starred a bear, only this time the bear had been strutting around the Windhelm palace.

“I had another bear dream,” I admitted. “Yesterday morning I dreamt a bear slept behind me—“

“—which was me—”

“Which was you,” I repeated, smiling. Yrsarald had admitted to sneaking into the cave at night, too worried to stay away. Even though, as he had put it, my snores could have scared away Alduin himself, he had stayed with me until just before sunrise. “And just now,” I continued, “a bear was living at Windhelm.”

“I suppose your mind is confused, and is simply dreaming of me.”

“Mm.” I nuzzled his arm, which was conveniently under my head, acting the pillow. “Have you ever wondered…,” I began to say, but let the sentence fade, deciding not to ask what I was going to ask. “Nevermind.”

“Hm? Wondered what?”

“No, it is embarrassing. My mind wandered too far, yesterday morning.”

Yrsarald chuckled. “Now I am curious.”

I groaned, and deliberated on the best way to phrase my question. “I was just… thinking… what might happen if a werebear… or a werewolf… were to… ehh… join with… you know, a person? Just a person. For sex.”

Yrsarald stiffened. “Why are you thinking about this?”

I buried my face into the bend of Yrsarald’s elbow and covered what I could with one hand. “Nevermind. I didn’t say anything. You didn’t hear. Nevermind!”

Yrsarald bounced with laughter, but quickly quieted, and smoothed a hand up and down my back. “Calm down, Deborah. Minds wander. It is what they do. So long as you don’t… actually _want…_ to—”

“I don’t want, Yrsa! I— _ughhh!_ ”

He laughed again and held me close. My quiet, self-disapproving groans were muffled by his bicep.

“ _Champion!_ ”

The resonant, assertive voice startled me. I pushed myself up and peered out the cave, thinking a woman had somehow managed to approach without either of us sensing her.

“Did you hear that?” I asked Yrsarald.

“Hear what?”

I turned to him. He was wholly unaffected. “It was….”

“ _Champion! Hear me and obey!”_

I stood, trying to place the voice, staring at the cave floor to lessen any distractions.

“Deborah?” Yrsarald’s hand clutched my forearm.

“ _Kfft!_ ” I stepped away from Yrsarald. “I’m listening.”

“ _Champion, you need to complete your training. Now!”_

The dream! My mind raced at the surge of memory. The dream with wine and a sofa and a sci-fi movie had not been a dream at all. How could I have forgotten!? I returned my gaze to Yrsarald. I named the voice. “Meridia.”

“ _Return at once to High Hrothgar. Your training has not yet finished!”_

“Yes,” was all I said.

The goddess’s voice had been far harsher than I had remembered it. Perhaps she was perturbed at my little holiday with Yrsarald. Had I not just saved the world from two necromancers? Well, I and a bunch of other people. In any case, I deserved a break, damn it.

I stomped a bare foot against the cold, hard cave floor. “Crap.”

“What?”

I sighed, and frowned up at my husband-to-be. “Meridia is telling me to go back to High Hrothgar to finish training. Right now.”

Yrsarald’s chest puffed and his face reddened. “You were told three months.” His slow, biting tone confirmed his anger. “What more training do you need?”

“Three months until I was to go to Meridia’s temple, Yrsa, not three months until I am finished at High Hrothgar.”  I whined. “It must be because of the vampires. I had… Meridia visited me in a dream, but the dream did not stay in my mind. I remember now…. I think she wanted me to go there days ago. She is not happy.”

Yrsarald’s face drooped as his shoulders sank. “ _Mikskraen_.” Big crap.

A penetrating, crackling explosion outside of the cave sent me leaping into Yrsarald’s arms, and if the reverberations inside the cave hadn’t already been deafening, I might have caused Yrsarald’s with my scream. Stoneflesh cast on instinct. I spun around and ran toward the cave entrance to find a tree on fire, half of it split from the rest, on the ground. I turned back to Yrsarald.

He was staring at the tree, wide-eyed, stunned. He swallowed hard and grasped my hips, positioning himself behind me. He was using me as a shield. “I think you should listen to her,” he whispered, clearly terrified.

. . . . . .

Parting with Yrsarald again was next to impossible, but I knew the sooner I left, the sooner I would be able to return. Though I promised Yrsarald to try to return within one month’s time, I had no idea for how long I would be gone, so we spent a day in Windhelm gathering enough basic supplies, such as clothing and my winter cloak, and some traveling food. Five guards were to travel with me and Ingjard to Ivarstead. Four were to remain at the settlement while one would remain at High Hrothgar, doubling my personal guard as well as acting the messenger or food errand runner. This allowed Ingjard to stay with me up the mountain at all times. All of this pleased Yrsarald, and lessened his worry for my safety.

Ingjard and I followed a route Yrsarald had mapped out for us, one that would allow us to avoid camping out in the open. Thankfully, the way was perfectly safe. The soldiers in Shor’s Stone and nearby forts had heard the news about Markarth, and though sad and disquieted, they remained positive and confident. No vampire attacks had been reported anywhere we went, but I did see a few boarded windows on some cottages.

It was nearly autumn, and the weather had grown less predictable. One moment it would be raining, the next sleeting, and then moments later the sun would come out. The morning we began to hike up Snow Throat it had been clear, but as we marched, clouds rolled in and eventually showered us with sharp, cold rain. The bones of my right hand began to ache horribly, and I healed the deep pain as best I could. The relief was temporary, and superficial.

The way up was less hazardous than before. Though we kept up our guard, always on the lookout for beasts or vampires – even during the day – all we saw on the mountain path were bunnies and arctic foxes, the former of which were much more plentiful, much to the delight of the latter. Ingjard was eager to try out her new crossbow, complete with what she called Dwemer bolts, items purchased from Khajiit traders outside of Windhelm the morning we left for Yrsarald’s cave.

“Found along the road between here and Riften,” the trader had claimed. “No body, no coin, just the weapon.” I wasn’t convinced of the veracity of the trader’s claim, but I recognized him as the Khajiit who was friends with Stenvar; he couldn’t have been all bad.

It was an expensive purchase, but I had promised to buy something nice for my bodyguard, and this was a perfect opportunity. Ingjard had heard about the power of crossbows and was eager to train herself in using the weapon, which she accomplished while waiting for me and Yrsarald to return from our little getaway. The mechanism of the crossbow was rather loud, but Ingjard didn’t mind. She admitted to being quite noisy anyway, and as such, a regular bow would have been no use to her. Power in exchange for stealth – Ingjard was all for this. She had hoped for a wolf or bear or troll to kill along the way, but none approached the path, if they were on the mountain at all. I had to dissuade her from killing a fox.

When the fortress was within my sight, I sighed in relief. I ached to get off my feet. The home of the Greybeards offered a Spartan existence, but still boasted a stone bath that I could fill with melted snow and heat with fire magic. I sped up my pace, practically drooling over the thought of submersing myself in hot, magical water.

 

After our meager supper with the Greybeards, before Ingjard retired for the evening, I pulled her aside. Grinning, I untucked the amulet of Mara from under my mage robe, which I had changed into after my bath.

“So, Ingjard,” I began, “do you want to know what Yrsarald and I did while away?” I wagged my eyebrows while letting the pendant sway between us, simultaneously showcasing the sapphire ring.

It took the woman a moment, but soon my bodyguard’s face lit up with understanding, and she jump-hugged me while screeching with glee.

. . . . . .

 _Tiid, klo, ul_. Time, sand, eternity. I mastered the Shout that the Greybeards called Slow Time within five days at High Hrothgar. Borri was most impressed, and highly encouraging. Arngeir was impressed, too, but also concerned. He worried about the reasons I wanted to master so many Shouts. I was honest with him, and he did nothing to stop me from learning as much as I deemed necessary. If Paarthurnax approved, then so would he.

The Shout that slowed time now lasted about one minute, if my counting was accurate. That was more than enough time to save my ass, or the asses of others around me. Previously, it had only lasted about twenty seconds, if that. There was no longer any variation in the strength or duration of this Shout, and time always moved at the same pace every time I uttered the words, rather than being unpredictable.

Paarthurnax explained that the Shout did not actually slow time away from me or quicken time near me, but rather allowed me to “fly the winds of Time” and control how quickly others did the same. The more power given to the Shout, the more precise the effect would be. I tested this with Ingjard, a willing lab rat, and attempted to allow myself to move normally through time while separately controlling how quickly she moved. Previously, we had been a team, and the Shout was instinctively executed with this in mind. After bellowing the three Words of Power, I had watched in wonder as Ingjard swung her sword around in slow-motion while I did the same at normal speed. Afterwards, she insisted that she had been moving around normally while I was moving at hyper-speed. I tested this several more times with Borri, being another enthusiastic volunteer, and he, too, moved in slow-motion while I maintained normal speed for either just myself or both myself and Ingjard. I also tested the Shout on Paarthurnax, and time slowed for him just as much as it had anyone else. Time itself, however – the seasons and aging of life around me – was left unaffected. The Shout was a defensive mechanism, Paarthurnax had explained, not a god-like power, and had natural and metaphysical limits.

As to the identity of my dragon protector, Paarthurnax was not entirely sure. He knew who it was not, but other than this, he had no real answer for me. He felt the presence of several dragons at any given time, but did not know which had been following me around the western portion of the country.

“There are some _dovahhe_ who choose to not be named,” Paarthurnax explained. “Names are… _suleyk_ , power. Some of the _dov_ speak… _ni vahzen,_ untruths, giving a false name. They do not want to be called.”

“Vuljotnaak called this red dragon ‘ _Grutiik’_. Does that mean something?”

Paarthurnax snorted. “ _Grutiik_ is a name I know well. It is… an accusation. A _dovah_ behaving as no _dovah_ should. In your tongue, _svekje_.”

I frowned, not understanding. “I don’t know what that means.”

My dragon friend pushed himself up and turned, curling into himself like a sleeping dog or cat, head and tail surrounding me. “Come, _Dovahkiin_. Sit by me, out of this wind. We will meditate together on the meaning of _gruth_.”

Meditation was one of the more frequent ways I had mastered so many Words of Power, and the process worked best at High Hrothgar or at the top of Snow Throat, at the Throat of the World. Paarthurnax and Arngeir both often joined me in my meditations. I was surprised to learn from Paarthurnax that whenever I ‘concentrated’ on my surroundings, searching for people or things, I was in a sense meditating, calling forth my inner dragon and allowing my dragon blood to know, to sense. As time passed, this skill would grow in power and precision, just as it had been already. Paarthurnax warned me of this, however. Wakening my dragon blood, relying on it to know my surroundings, could easily result in a loss of my ‘mortalness’, my humanity. Shouts, though a direct connection to draconic nature, were a sort of filter for this instinct. They were safer.

Hermaeus Mora likely knew this when he helped me to wake up my inner dragon. Of course everything dragon related would be easier if I shed my human skin and grew wings!... figuratively speaking.

Paarthurnax rustled against me, and a deep sigh thundered against my back. _Calm down,_ he was saying. His dragon sense was much too keen.

Shouts. Words. _Rotmulaagge._ Leaning the sound, the syllable, from scrolls or books was not enough. I had to know the word, know its meaning or meanings, know its usage, its history, and most importantly, know what the word _felt_ like, particularly to a dragon.

I knew what ice was. I knew fire, wind, rocks, and time. I had become especially intimate with certain elements during my training at the mage’s college. But as Paarthurnax and the Greybeards had described it, truly understanding a Word of Power meant one needed to take the meaning of the word into one’s being. Become the fire. Become the ice. Become time.

Paarthurnax had been impressed at my early connection to certain Words, in particular _fus_ , force, which he claimed I had control over as strong as any dragon. But Paarthurnax taught me how fire, _yol_ , was all about change. A catalyst. When dragons spat ice and fire at one another, they were disagreeing on whether or not something should stay the same, or whether it should change. I had told him about Vuljotnaak spewing ice, and my red dragon, fire, and this made a lot of sense to him.

 _“_ A _dovah”,_ Paarthurnax had said, _“_ who _grut_ its own kind certainly desires change.”

My eyes opened.

_That’s it!_

Betrayal. _Gruth_. Betrayer. _Grutiik_.

 _Svekja. Svekje_. Bird had used this word when he retained that he could never tell me who Yrsarald, the letter-writer was. I groaned at the memory.

The red dragon was a betrayer. A betrayer to dragonkind. What did that mean? Paarthurnax was a betrayer to dragonkind. He had helped the humans revolt against Alduin. That was a big deal. So what did this red dragon do? Did he help Paarthurnax during the Dragon War? Did Paarthurnax even have dragon helpers? Why else might dragons call one of their own a betrayer, if not for helping humans? Did most dragons hate humans? In my limited experience, most sure seemed to.

The weather had turned rainy, but I refused to be wet again, and prepared to Shout for the weather to clear. A nudge from Paarthurnax stopped me, though, and he snapped his jaw shut, a gesture that I quickly learned months ago meant something like “ _tsk tsk_ ”. He was chiding me for using a Shout for frivolous reasons, in this case, to clear a spit of rain. He untucked his wing from behind my back and held it over me. Though tattered in places, the membrane did the trick. Ingjard scurried over, joining in the shelter, and Paarthurnax allowed it. I reached up and touched the wing, wondering if the membrane could be healed. I concentrated some healing magic on a single tear nearest my head, and though it took a while, the tissue rejoined, partially.

“One day I will fix your wings, Paarthurnax.” But, for now, I moved on. “’Gruth’,” I repeated the word. “I understand it, now. The red dragon is a betrayer to the dragons. Perhaps to Alduin?”

Paarthurnax didn’t answer, and instead nudged me with his knee. _Back to meditating!_ he was saying.

I thought again about somehow merging magic and Shouts, of creating a Shout that might be useful against the undead, vampires in particular. Paarthurnax said it was possible, that Tongues had done such a thing before. They created a Shout, though not necessarily with magic. In a time of True Need, I was told, the means to create a Shout would present themselves.

Vampires. Vampires. Undead. The dragon word for ‘undead’ was ‘ _diil_ ’. What hurt them most? Sunlight. Fire? Meridia’s light. Dawnbreaker set everything on fire, undead or not. But to undead, what did it do? The sword had within it the power to create a sort of concentrated, undead-specific explosion that radiated outward from the body of a dying – undying? redying? – undead body. The effect terrified the undead, or killed them outright. What sort of spell was that? Fear, but more than that, light.

Blade of the sun.

Sun. Magnus. Magic. Aetherius. Meridia was the daughter of Magnus. Meridia was the Lady of Light. Meridia’s Light was obviously stored in the sword’s enchantment, or perhaps its jewel. Malkoran used the sword or its jewel to power his necromantic spells. Perhaps Meridia wanted me to use her Light to vanquish the undead, somehow, other than by just using her sword. Perhaps I could take the sword’s magic into me.

Blade of the sun.

I wondered how a Shout would, could affect the undead, if such a feat were accomplished. Would it behave like the Shout the Greybeards called Unrelenting Force and knock zombies and vampires to their feet, if not blowing them away several meters or more? Would it send them away screaming? Burn them to ash?

The vision of a flaming, screaming face woke me from the abyss of deep thought. I yelped and jumped, hand flinging to my side to grasp Ingjard, but she had left. The rain had stopped, though the sky was still dim and overcast. Paarthurnax was behind me, poised on his haunches and wings. He was gazing south, toward the fortress, and the path that lead to the summit. Ingjard stood by the Word Wall, grasping her sword and shield. She, too, was gazing south.

My heart fluttered. I bolted to my feet and reached to my side for Dawnbreaker, but recalled I had left her back in High Hrothgar. Cursing, I watched as Paarthurnax took flight, and I knew the situation was bad.

“ _Laas yah nir!”_

As my dragon friend soared high above High Hrothgar, something he was not keen on doing as it allowed people below the summit to see him, I concentrated on what I knew.

Hunger. Yes, there was a hunger, but not from me or my companions. Many – many what? Many everything. Orc and elf and human. Alive and unalive. Everything. Bad. Very bad. I could barely make out the red forms inside High Hrothgar from so high atop the mountain, but there were too many. Much too many. How had I not sensed this sooner!?

Something was at the fortress, and something else was on its way toward us, moving fast. It was not vampires – no. At least, not an army of them.

“Something’s coming!” I shouted back at my bodyguard. I cast Stoneflesh and readied lightning magic in both hands. Ingjard joined me at my side.

“What is it?”

“Bad.”

“You say this word as if it helps!”

Thunder rumbling from the fortress was the confirmation I needed; the Greybeards were defending themselves.

“To the fortress!”

“Was that thunder!?”

I ran toward the top of the path, but had failed to realize just how close an incoming force was. A dark, metal-armored figure crashed into me and I spun to the ground, falling face first into the snow. I heard Ingjard screaming through an attack before I turned to stand. Blood stained the white imprint where my face had been, and a sting on my left cheek told me I had been cut by the attacker’s armor. My bodyguard held her own, besting the short, stocky figure with her shield.

Three more dark-armored warriors clamored up the incline, weapons raised. They were alive. Humans, and alive. My fingers tingled with anticipation.

From both hands I sent forth steady streams of lightning magic at their cores. A man holding a two-handed, long and thin blade grunted as he was thrust back by the force of the magic, and the two others were paralyzed, convulsing. Their armor was not enchanted, and did nothing more than conduct electricity across their bodies. I ceased casting, and their bodies fell limp, creating steam as the charged metal cut into the snow.

The man who had been knocked down advanced again as others rounded the bend, shouting various encouragements to one another. Paarthurnax took several of them out with a screaming inferno.

“ _Fus!_ ” The quick thrust of dragon magic pushed most of the unburnt warriors to their backs. Ingjard was at my side again, shield ready to block any blow.

“ _A var dagon as baune molag mino!_ ” A fire rune burned itself into the snowy path between us and the warriors, and Ingjard was thankfully smart enough to fall back with me. We rounded the path back up to the mountaintop in time to avoid the fiery explosion. Unfortunately, the fire magic was weak, melting the surrounding snow and only annoying the three warriors who ran right for us.

“ _Iiz slen nus!”_ Ice particles formed at my command and encompassed the armored bodies of the warriors, freezing them to the ground.

“Stay back!” I shouted to Ingjard before sending a ball of lightning at the warriors. The power of the hyper-charged magic exploded the body of the man it had hit, and damaged the other two, knocking off hands and lower legs. But it didn’t matter. More warriors were coming. Too many warriors.

“ _Tiid klo ul!”_

“Gods, I will never get used to that,” Ingjard muttered before she dashed forward and plunged her sword into the neck of a short woman. The warrior fell just as slowly as she had been approaching, blood spurting in an arc from her severed carotid.

“Ingjard! To me!” My bodyguard turned, scowled, but obeyed. The moment she stepped to my side, I looked to the sky and called forth the power of the gods themselves with three little words.

“ _Strun bah qo!_ ” Storm, wrath, lightning. The white, harmless clouds above churned and darkened, smashing into one another in response to the Shout. I cast my ward orb around and above Ingjard and myself, and watched as the sky unleashed hell.

Bolts of lightning spiked down from the manifested storm, some hitting slow-moving warriors and others snow, occasionally striking the ward magic that thankfully held fast. I watched as a bolt illuminated an orc warrior before thrusting her far, far away ever so elegantly.

A roll of thunder sounded just before me, but I thought nothing of it. The lightning strikes created a chorus of painfully loud crackles that drowned out most other sounds.

I should have known better.

A lumbering warrior body-slammed into my ward, startling Ingjard and I due to his fast movement. All the other warriors were still moving slowly. Worrying about what might happen if my ward failed while the lightning still rained, I cleared the small storm with the words Kyne had gifted me and released my hold on the ward, ready to take down this new assailant who had fallen back a few paces.

I breathed in deep. “ _Fu—“_

Slammed, right in my chest. The blow, too fast, too massive to block, sent me flying through the air, falling back into a pillow of snow. I couldn’t breathe. My vision was blurred. I scratched at my armor, attempting to grasp a strangling hand that did not exist.

The shouts of advancing warriors told me that they moved normally again. I listened to the sounds of Ingjard defending and attacking, not once screaming from injury. I heard the roar of Paarthurnax’s dragonfire. Good. Good. I cast Stoneflesh and raised a simple ward above me as I pushed myself up on my right elbow. The warrior who had hit me with his huge mace stood where he had before, grinning down at me and ignoring Ingjard. He was an orc, and by his flashing eyes and particular, disgusting aura, I knew he was a vampire. A vampire outside in daylight.

“ _Fus!”_ The power of my voice, usually strong enough to knock anyone to the ground, only threw him off balance momentarily.

The orc laughed, and too quickly for me to react, spat Words of Power right back at me. “ _Krii lun aus!_ ”

A purple haze of magic broke my ward and my Stoneflesh spell, and seeped into my armor and skin. I screamed as I was pinned to the frozen ground, held captive by the agony of microscopic, magical knives carving into the cells of my upper body.  Through the systemic sting, I somehow maintained the wherewithal to emit healing magic upon myself, combating the pain enough to be able to think straight.

Torug. Torug. _Torug._

I named him, willing my mind to think of something other than pain, to concentrate on defending myself from the orc Dragonborn. Dragonborn vampire. _Vampire._ I inhaled, and formed the Word I needed. “ _Fei—“_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> __**Norren**  
>  Stornegrin – moot (jarls meeting)  
> Kffft – shhh  
> Mikskraen – big crap  
> Svekje - Betrayer  
> Svekja - Betrayal
> 
> __**Dovahzul**  
>  Dovahhe – dragons  
> Suleyk – power  
> Dov – dragonkind  
> ni vahzen – not truth  
> Grutiik – Betrayer  
> Gruth – Betrayal  
> Rotmulaagge – Words of Power  
> Grut – Betray  
> Diil – undead  
> Laas yah nir – Aura Whisper  
> Fus – force, Unrelenting Force  
> Iiz slen nus – Ice Storm  
> Tiid klo ul – Slow Time  
> Strun bah qo – Storm Call  
> Krii lun aus – Marked for Death  
> Fei(m) – Fade, Become Ethereal
> 
> __**Ayleidoon**  
>  A var dagon as baune molag mino – I cast your destruction by fire over there


	45. Balance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Feels song for this chapter is “In the Air Tonight” by Stacks of Wax (a remix of the cover by Kelly Sweet)._
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> _**Content warning:** violence, injury, blood, sexual assault, and major character death._

I awoke to the sound of moaning. Not the kind one made when injured, but the pleasurable version. Though my head was throbbing and muscles ached, I pressed my palms to the snow at my sides and pushed myself to a reclined position. Through blurred vision, a swirling white light was all I saw. The silhouetted figure was dark, looming, and massive. He was laughing. Moaning and laughing. His arms were raised in a triumphant stance.

“ _Paar Thur Nax!_ ” the figure yelled. “ _Torug los Thur nu! Dovahkiin nu krii Alduin!”_

Torug.

_Paarthurnax._

I choked on the cold, dry air. I had felt my dragon friend’s presence, but what I had felt, I now realized, was his soul. His _soul_ , as it was merging with Torug’s soul. My body began to tremble, the rage too much to contain.

 _Stand. Stand, Deb. On your fucking feet._ Groaning, I pushed myself to one side, knelt, and with much effort, stood. A small piece of armor remained on the pink snow where my body had left an impression. My armor was falling apart. My skin was covered in scratches. My energy was gone, completely gone. I could barely breathe. Even healing magic disobeyed. The small purse at my side was gone. My knapsack, which had potions in it too, was hidden from my sight.

“ _Feim zii gron!”_ The action took all I had, but other than making my body ghost-like and removing all sensation, one of the effects of the Shout was a certain amount of energy regeneration. The pain I had felt was suspended, and I ran through the air toward the Word Wall where my knapsack likely was.

My vision was wonky. At times objects appeared clear, but at other times, fuzzy. I figured I had some sort of concussion, that or my vision was going, and knew I should heal my head as soon as possible.

The knapsack was not at the Word Wall, or it had been covered by snow. As I was currently immaterial, I wasn’t able to kick snow around to find it.

Something to my right caught my eye. I looked again, and at the center of a ring of dark metal, I saw a pile of steel, and red hair. Ingjard. She was still, deathly still. I felt life from her, though.

My left hand tingled; I was regaining substance.

Behind me rolled vicious, guttural laughter, and a strong hand pulled me to the ground by my hair. The muscles of my neck protested the violent motion. My head still throbbed. My vision was still blurry. I forced weak healing magic throughout my body. It helped, a little, and I readied a fireball between my palms. Torug laughed again and dove into my personal space, disrupting the magic. His knees compressed my thighs and his hands grabbed my wrists. The beast hovered over me, sniffing, humming, and sniffing some more. I moved my lips to form a Shout, but one of Torug’s palms pressed against my mouth. Sharp fingernails pierced the surrounding skin. My free arm shoved against the fortress that was his body, eventually punching until sharp metal cut my hand. Every muscle in my aching body pushed futilely against the intrusion. Only then did I realize what had happened.

I thought I had been resistant to magic, and perhaps I was, but Shouts were different. Magic, yes, but not like that cast from a mage. I was not resistant to Shouts, not at all. The Shout that Torug had used on me, which had rendered me unconscious, ruined the target’s energy, magic stores, and made them feel ill. I had read about it in a half-burnt scroll in the Greybeard’s library, but had not yet learned the words profoundly enough to be able to control their power. Torug obviously had. The other Shout he had used, the one that tore through my armor and body, began with the word “ _krii_ ”, kill. I did not know this Shout, but I recalled that I had used the first word of it on Alduin, a remnant of Viinturuth’s essence.

“Finally awake,” the orc drawled after a chuckle. “Magic can’t save that delicate head of yours.”

With a flash of turquoise, I cast Stoneflesh upon myself. Torug remained unaffected, one hand still clamped over my mouth.

He laughed again, clearly amused. “Mages.” He spat blood at my face, but the thin layer of magic caught the spray. “Always showin’ off.”

I clenched my fists. _You killed him_. I thrashed with what little strength I had regained. _Paarthurnax_ ….

“You answered their call, did you? The old men on the mountain!? Gave in to the Way of the Voice? _Fus!”_  Thunder punched my face; my brain was quaking. “At least they kept you here.”

His weight shifted and his hand pressed harder against my mouth. I tried to concentrate on a defensive Shout, one that might not have needed to be mouthed, whispered, spoken or screamed, but none worked, none but the Shout that revealed life. Torug’s presence was strong, strong enough to overshadow Ingjard’s faint signature, but the two were all I felt. The other warriors were dead. _Get up, Ingjard. Ingjard…._

“But then that bitch killed my Blades and _sofjelkonen_ ,” he growled. “How many of my children is one dragon worth? How many are _you_ worth!?”

 _Children?_ I was confused, and horrified.

“No matter. I will create more.” He leaned in close. I smelled blood. “Did you befriend him, the white dragon?”

I struggled again, and Torug slammed an armored knee against my thigh. My cries were muffled by his hand, which now threatened to block air from entering my nose.

“I know things, now, little dragon-born. Paarthurnax knew many things. Things about you, about the souls you’ve taken from me.” He grinned. “I will have them, and yours. That white dragon’s, though….” He licked a tusk. “We had orders to destroy the beast. I didn’t care about why. The older, the stronger. Did you know that? Hmm? Or do you only have baby dragons inside of you?”

He laughed as I struggled again, further exhausting myself. I tried to cast a fireball with either of my hands. Nothing. Lightning, nothing.

“I wonder what it’s like, to take into me another dragon-born’s soul. I had argued with myself on whether or not to turn you. I didn’t want you around me – competition. But, as my _sofjelkon_ you would have been under my control. I would’ve had to use the spell instead of bite you, like all my children. Funny how the spell does nothing to you.”

Turn me. Torug had attempted to make me a vampire! _Goddamn him._ Finally, my fingers tingled with energy, and my free hand slammed against Torug’s dark armor as I cast lightning magic.

“ _Yol!_ ” The beast Shouted at me again, away from his hand that was still pressed to my mouth. Dragonfire burned my left neck and jaw, cooking my flesh and singeing my hair. I screamed, and my innate healing magic went to work, using up the rest of what stores I had regenerated. Though the magic might have healed my body somewhat, I was still in pain, and the smell did nothing to help comfort me.

Torug growled. “ _You_ are too much trouble!” He ripped off his dark metal helmet and quickly grabbed my wrist again as he bowed down. “Struggle all you want,” he whispered into my ear as a tusk grazed my neck. “Your flower-lightning dragon blood and your soul will be mine while your lady friend lay dying. Do you think she can hear me? Is she listening to you cry? Her final thought will be of her own failings.”

My mind raced. Through it all, I maintained a weak resistance, still too drained to put up a real fight. The monster above me was too massive, too supernaturally powerful for me to combat. As I felt my chest armor being ripped off, I considered the various spells that I could cast without the use of my hands. Stoneflesh was one, but I had already cast it, and maintaining the effect required a lot of energy. Nothing. There was nothing else. Except….

I closed my eyes and concentrated on lightning. Lightning was my element, and in a way, Meridia’s element, too. She had cloaked me in lightning when Hermaeus Mora had tried to attack me in my subconscious. Or had I done that? Had I cloaked myself in that magic? I couldn’t recall.

 _Lightning. Lightning. Cloak of lightning._ I stopped fighting Torug, letting my body relax. I felt the lightning begin in my palms and trickle toward my fingertips. I begged it to climb up my arms, to encase me as much as it could. _Lightning cloak!_

Torug grunted, loudly, and reeled back. Freed of his weight, I sat up and Shouted at the monster. “ _Iiz slen nus!”_

“ _Wuld!_ ” he countered, fleeing the area where my voice had sent shards of ice. He turned to me and started on a run forward.

 _Enough_. I breathed in. I breathed in again. “ _Yol!”_

Torug wailed in pain as he crashed against me. I was immediately flipped onto my stomach, and a hand more than half the size of my face covered my mouth again. His knees sank onto the backs of mine, and his free hand attempted to rip off the rest of my damaged armor. I kicked, but the weight of his body held me down as he tore at cracked metal.

He tugged hard at my ratty mass of hair, wrenching my back into an arch, and I whimpered with the pain of popping joints and strained ligaments. I stared at the sky, silently praying, and felt the cold wind kiss my tear-streaked cheeks.

“I’m gonna empty your body of blood as I take you, mage,” Torug hissed into my ear. “Slowly. One delicious drop at a time. You’ll feel the Change comin’ on. Don’t worry – you’ll die before it’s finished.”

The healing magic would not come back. The lightning cloak would not come back. I was still breathless, weak, and terribly dizzy. Visions of my rape years ago flooded back. With the tearing off of my leg armor and ripping of my leggings, I knew that was what Torug had in mind for me. I squirmed beneath him, but he just shoved my face into the snow. I was splayed, pinned down, exhausted, helpless.

 _Wretched wyrms_. I found myself recalling the dragon words that Hermaeus Mora had taught me. I felt them, their meanings. Strength, armor, wyrm. _Mul, qah, diiv._ A dragon’s strength. A dragon’s armor-like hide. A dragon-like spirit. I am the dragon. I am the wyrm.

I was suffocating, and Torug must have noticed because he yanked my head back again, neglecting to cover my mouth. The sudden burst of icy air scratched at my throat and lungs. He licked my neck and smelled my hair. I felt the threat of teeth at my flesh. He was teasing me.

I thought of Paarthurnax. I thought of the dying Ingjard – _I still feel you, keep breathing_. I thought of Ulfric, and all those who perished in Riverwood because Torug stepped in too late. I thought of the awful Forsworn and of Markarth, of Ralof. I closed my eyes.

_Mul. Qah. Diiv._

With every bit of strength I had left, I Shouted the three dragon words just as my face was being driven back into the snow. I had barely registered it, but before the Shout, I had felt Torug’s cold, petrous flesh venturing where it should not.

The Shout reverberated around me, warming, caressing. Then I no longer felt anything, not the cold wind or the sting of snow on bared flesh. Torug was no longer on me, behind me, his fangs no longer grazing my neck. I was floating.

When I opened my eyes, I saw an array of colorful lights swirling about me, and then all sensation came flooding back. I was cold, weak, shaking, hungry, thirsty, and in horrible pain. I looked down at my hands and body and noticed that I had been draped in a magical cloak of sorts, but it weighed nothing. The magic looked like flames – orange, white, purple, blue.

Turning towards a commotion, I saw the ghostly figure of an armored woman, wielding a sizable battleaxe, attacking Torug. The orc fought back, blocking the blows, and clashes of metal against metal confirmed that the specter, or at least her weapon, had substance. Torug took a swing at her glowing form, but his mace passed straight through her. She was magic. Dragon magic.

I thought back to what Mora had said to me about the Shout. _The will of the wyrm-souled. Warriors who once wandered the world._ I wondered if I was watching the soul of an ancient Dragonborn fight my nemesis. As if in an answer to my thoughts, the woman Shouted fire at Torug, a strong burst of flame that had Torug screaming. The specter’s axe bashed against Torug’s chest in a display of relentless dominance. I wondered for how long the battle would go on, and if I could by some means speed up the process of Torug’s death.

Standing on the sidelines, ignored, I breathed deep and continued to breathe this way until I felt my diaphragm stretch. Force, balance, push. _Fus, ro, dah_. I knew the words well, well enough to understand them as well as I understood my own mind. The Shout was the first one I perfected and strengthened while studying with the Greybeards and, in the end, I no longer even had to voice the words to perform the magic behind them, not when I had enough mental energy. But mouthing the Words of Power resulted in a minimal effect. Shouting them, with bodily strength, made them lethal.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

I opened my mouth and the Shout ripped through the air, blasting a thunderous sound that even I, with trained ears, couldn’t recognize as words. The thunder was just the echo, the after-effect heard around the source. I watched in both delight and horror as Torug was sent flying through the air and over the edge of the mountain, and as my spectral savior and her weapon vanished in a puff of white smoke.

I limped over to the edge from where Torug had fallen, but when I looked down I saw nothing at all, only clouds. I heard no scream, no thud, no indication whatsoever that the beast had died. Perhaps it happened too quickly, and the rumble of the Shout covered any sound he made. Perhaps he was still falling.

“ _Laas yah nir,_ ” I whispered, but saw only a few fleeing deer to the southeast.

I felt _nothing_. Nothing, except Ingjard’s faint heartbeat.

Spinning around, I found her body again, and ran as fast as my screaming limbs would take me. A mass of bodies surrounded her, most of them wearing the same black armor as Torug had been. Some of them looked like Forsworn. Some of them had been vampires. I didn’t bother to take full account.

I fell to Ingjard’s side and immediately cast as much healing magic as I could upon her face and midsection. I watched, dizzy, as the golden swirls enshrouded her body, only then noticing the source of the pool of blood surrounding her abdomen.

Her painted hands had been clutching at a gaping wound, holding loose intestines. The organs, pink and grey, had been ripped open, spilling feces into her body cavity. The smell was horrific. How much could my healing magic have done at this point? Could I reverse potential sepsis? Purify traces of fecal matter still in her body cavity? Or was I only prolonging her pain? I stopped healing her, horrified at the possibility of making everything worse.

Healing potion. Could a potion prevent sepsis? I fumbled through Ingjard’s small purse, grabbed a tiny red bottle, uncorked it and pressed the brim to Ingjard’s lips. She jerked her face away, and spat up the syrup.

 “Ingjard! Come on!”

She grunted, and her eyelids fluttered. A gulping sound was all she managed to say as she shook her head.

I looked again at her abdomen and suppressed a gag. “I can’t—“ my voice broke. “I can’t fix this, Ingjard. You need to try a potion.”

With another shake of her head, she finally opened her eyes. “Torug?” she whispered.

“Ingjard, a potion might—“

“Torug!” she cried, body convulsing with the effort.

She began to shake. I reached for her hand, and looked her in the eyes. She knew. She was dying, and she wouldn’t let me try to save her. Perhaps she knew any attempt would have been pointless.

Through my dread, I forced a warm smile. “He’s gone. Torug – yes, that was Torug and his… I don’t know. His ‘children’. He’s gone. You… you and Paarthurnax… you killed them all, didn’t you? Those warriors?”

Ingjard smirked.

“You did.” Smiling back, I laughed through my oncoming tears. “I knew you could.” I swept a hand through her hair, feeling the texture of a side braid and straightening it out. My right hand cramped, and I flexed the fingers several times.

Ingjard mustered enough strength to grasp my left hand and focus her gaze on me. Her chin quivered. “Sav-ving,” she whispered, “s-sa-aving the D-dragon-nborn. Wo-o”—she swallowed and squeezed shut her eyes before continuing—“wo-orthy d-de-eath.”

All I could do was nod, despite Ingjard not being able to see me.

“To-n-night,” she continued, managing a glorious smile, “I d-dine with Sho-or.”

“Yeah,” I nodded frantically. “You will, Ingjard.” Tears blurred the face of my beautiful friend, and I rubbed the water out of my eyes. My eyelashes tickled with smeared blood. “You will,” I repeated, whispering. “Thank you.”

“Se-end me,” she breathed, shaking again. She opened her eyes only to see my horrified expression. “De-eb.” Her hand wrenched mine. “I ca-an’t.” She thrust an arm forward in an attempt grasp my elbow. “Dra-agonborn. Please. M-my sword.”

I shook my head and swallowed, but looked around for her weapon. I saw the crossbow, emptied of bolts, but not her sword. Ingjard moved her hand slightly to her right, and looking in that direction, I saw that the sword had been tossed some distance away. I ambled toward it, reluctant yet knowing the woman was in pain. She was right; I couldn’t let that continue.

By the time I returned to her side, she was already gone.

 

I was not prepared for the quiet. Even the delicate snowflakes that began to fall were silent.

I sat there, too weak to cry, staring at Ingjard’s body until I could no longer feel my extremities. I could have tried to save her. I could have forced a potion down her throat. Healing. Magic. Just one sip of those horrible syrups did wonders. But, like a broken bone, a torn organ and potential sepsis was likely harder to fix than just drinking a potion. Ingjard knew this. She must have. Still, I could have tried. I could have. I _should_ have _._

I was alone. So very alone. I turned again to look upon Ingjard’s body and choked down a sob. Her bright blue eyes were open wide to the white sky. Her fiery mane glistened with blood. Her armor – intricate, inherited, beautiful – had been cracked across her lower abdomen, probably by an axe. That was how they got her. The steel shined bright red.

I pressed a hand to my own lower abdomen, which was still protected by a sort of oversized belt Torug had failed to destroy.

Wuunferth was wrong. I was lucky.

I took Ingjard’s coin purse, leaving one septim for her celestial journey, and hobbled some distance away. Though almost reluctant to do so as it seemed a terrible insult, I breathed dragonfire upon her body, nearly falling forward with the effort.

She deserved a funeral, after all, my bodyguard. My friend. My _friend_. I took a breath, forcing myself to calm. The alternative was burial in snow or perhaps under loose rocks, something I hadn’t the energy to do, and I didn’t want to simply leave her there for the crows. They could have Torug’s warriors, his children, his Blades.

I didn’t wait to make sure her body cremated in full. I needed to get back to High Hrothgar, to rest and heal, and to deal with the bodies of the Greybeards, the young Uthyr, and my guard that I knew awaited me there.  I would have to burn them, too.

Perhaps there would be more dead warriors or vampires or Forsworn inside. I considered tossing their bodies from the mountainside, or perhaps letting them rot. They didn’t deserve my energy.

Paarthurnax. I limped my way to his bones, which were splayed across part of the summit. One hand-length tooth had fallen out of occlusion. I picked it up, and clenched it in my aching fist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Zu’u los thur nu – I am Lord now_  
>  Dovahkiin nu krii Alduin – Dragonborn now kill Alduin  
> Feim zii gron – Become Ethereal  
> Kriii – Kill (Marked for Death)  
> Sofjelkon/en – progeny/ies (blood-reproduction)  
> Yol – fire (Fire Breath)  
> Iiz slen nus – Ice Storm  
> Wuld – Whirlwind  
> Mul, qah, diiv – Dragon Aspect  
> Fus, ro, dah – Unrelenting Force  
> Laas yah nir – Aura Whisper


	46. Push

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Content warning:** violence, injury, blood, and major character death._
> 
>  
> 
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> 
> _Only 2 chapters left!_

Step. Step. Step.  _It’s downhill; you can do this_ . Step, drag. Step, drag.

The hike down from the precipice took a long, long time. Thankfully, unexpectedly, the stone bridge my mind had formed still held strong. I nearly fell off of it, though, having misplaced a step between two uneven cobbles. Trudging along had likely saved my life. I was dragging our two knapsacks behind me, barely able to support even my own weight.

I had collected the strewn bits of my armor, which were mostly salvageable. The chest plate, though cracked, was still wearable, and I reinforced the damaged straps with extra leather thongs I had found in Ingjard’s bag. I did the same with my thigh plates, which were mostly undamaged. Everything above my lower abdomen, however, was next to useless, and no longer glowing. The magic in the runes, the enchantment, was gone.

High Hrothgar’s courtyard doors were wide open, and some snow had been blown inside. I looked to the darkness within, fought by only one lit brazier around a bend, and felt for any signs of life. I felt nothing. I whispered the three dragon words that showed me life, but only my body glowed red.

Death-detection. Did I even have enough energy to cast it? I dropped the knapsacks, and with both hands I cast the spell. The fortress interior illuminated bright white with dozens of bodies.

How had I not sensed these warriors and Forsworn? The few vampires? How had I not sensed Torug, of all people? I had been distracted, my mind in another place, that was how. If I had not been meditating, would I have sensed the attack sooner? Why had Paarthurnax not sensed the attack sooner? Or, had he? He had been meditating, too. And Ingjard… Ingjard did not have an extra sense.

Ingjard….

High Hrothgar was supposed to be one of the safest places in Skyrim. It was even protected by the gods. Where were they today? I had left my sword in my bedroom because I never needed to protect myself here, before. Kyne and Paarthurnax both protected the mountaintop with their magic. Did Torug Shout away the magical blizzard that I had to clear on my first ascent?

Meridia had not wanted me to continue training at High Hrothgar, I realized – she had wanted me to be here to defend this place. She was angry that I hadn’t left when she had told me to, in the dream that had remained only marginally remembered in my consciousness. She had wanted me here days earlier than I had arrived. I would have therefore trained more, would have been doing something other than meditating, today. Right?

Why hadn’t she warned me? Had she not known? She had said that the Aedra and Daedra were not omniscient. She said this. No, she hadn’t known. No one had known. Torug and his warriors, just like the vampire horde, hid themselves under some sort of magical cloak. A presence as strong as Torug, Paarthurnax would have sensed him coming hours away if not for some sort of interference. But even I, resistant to magical tracking, was sensed by Paarthurnax and other dragons.

I didn’t understand it at all. Any of it.

“What is going on!?” I screamed at the high ceiling of the fortress, killing the silence with echoes. The company of my voice was brief. I choked on my impending sobs, and my gaze dropped to my hands. My bloody, injured hands. Unable to eschew the emotions any longer, I closed my eyes, and I cried.

. . . . . .

“Fourth… era… two… hundred… three.”

Pain and exhaustion elicited a long-winded groan. I took another sip of a healing potion to soothe the throbbing in my hands, particularly in my right. The process of engraving was a tedious one, but particularly uncomfortable when my body was in shambles. Sighing, I brushed away the stone dust, cleaning the epitaphs.

I gazed favorably upon my work. While I had lain in bed, allowing myself to heal, an idea took over my thoughts, and I knew I would not be able to leave High Hrothgar in good conscience until I finished the task. As a lasting tribute, the best I could do on my own, I scratched the names of the dead into the stone steps next to the central hall of the fortress. I had used one of Ingjard’s crossbow bolts, which I had gathered from the bodies they had taken down. The process took less time than I had expected, but was nonetheless tiresome. The metal of the bolt tip was dense and strong, and cut into the stone without much force.

“Ingjard,” I choked, re-reading her makeshift tombstone for the umpteenth time.

 _Ingjard, Sister of Eyleif_  
_House-servant, Friend_  
_Loved the Gods, Loved to Sing_  
_Died Defending Deborah the Red_  
_Heart Fire, 4E 203_

She did love to sing, my bodyguard. It was one of the things that had kept her entertained while stuck up here with me on this mountain. Her voice carried far, though, and the Greybeards often shushed her, as she had disturbed their meditations. I had always let her sing. I enjoyed her voice.

The epitaph for the Greybeards and my guard from Windhelm was inclusive. I hadn’t the energy to write one for everybody who died here. I didn’t allow myself to feel bad about this.

 _Greybeards Arngeir, Borri, Einarth, Wulfgar, Uthyr_  
_Windhelm Guard Viggar_  
_Died Defending High Hrothgar_  
_Heart Fire, 4E 203_

Paarthurnax. He should have been honored with more than a few lines on a stone step, but I hadn’t the means to provide more than this. What did one say about an ancient dragon who helped so many? One who had lived for thousands of years, most of those years alone in an exile of his own making? Even Ingjard’s epitaph seemed scant, but that of my dragon friend was a slight to his memory. I comforted myself in the knowledge that his tale was already briefly told on a plaque along the path up to this fortress, and that this final panel would have to do.

 _Dragon Paarthurnax_  
_Helper of Mortals_  
_Leader of the Greybeards_  
_Favored by the Gods_  
_Friend to Deborah the Red_  
_Died Defending the Throat of the World_  
_Heart Fire, 4E 203_

A separate message, isolated from the rest, simply read: _Torug killed them all._

Killed. Killed. _Killed_.

I lay down as I counted, mumbling their names as I tapped each fingertip in succession against my broken chest armor. Ingjard, Paarthurnax, Borri, Arngeir, Einarth, Uthyr, Wulfgar, and the guard, Viggar. Eight. Eight dead. Because of me. Because I was late. Because I was meditating.  My rage and anger and devastation flared, and my muscles clenched and stiffened. Bruises and cuts and pulled muscles were slowly becoming more apparent as the second wave of shock wore off and my nerves reawakened. I felt like I had been trampled.

How long could I wait here to heal? How long before Torug moved on to other places? Were the people in Ivarstead alright? Were our horses alive?

 _Our horses_. I choked on the air in my lungs. _My horses._ Would Potato understand, if he saw me alone? Would he know that I failed his gleaming, red-haired companion?  “Please be alive,” I breathed, hoping to hell I wouldn’t have to walk all the way home, dragging what I could behind me.

I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to go back to Ivarstead, at least. I had to tell the people there, tell them to tell others. I had to get home to Yrsarald. I had to warn everyone – Torug was a vampire.

The reality still set my blood on fire. _Vampire!_ Was it an accident? Was he bitten or – wasn’t it a spell that turned people? Had he—?

I gasped, thoughts halted by the realization.

Torug. Vampire. Forsworn. Torug. Vampire…. Had he been there, at Markarth? Had he turned all of those Forsworn, or had the Forsworn turned him? If they were linked… where would he send them? Where would they send him? What did Torug want? What did the Forsworn want? The Reach? Haafingar? The western mountains? And that northern country… High Rock?

I cried with the pain that came with moving, but I forced myself to my feet. Windhelm. Windhelm. I had to get home. I would send word to Whiterun, at least, from Ivarstead. Jarl Balgruuf would know what to do. I couldn’t worry about every city, every hold. I was only one person. I had to get home.

I packed what little I needed, what I could carry down the mountain to Ivarstead. I had to leave behind Ingjard’s crossbow; it was simply too heavy. My cloaks, my clothes, my money, journal, my potions, and some food. That was enough. It would have to be enough.

The front doors to the fortress, both of them, had been imploded, likely by Torug. Jagged pieces of wood were scattered across the entrances and main foyer. I hadn’t the time to clean the mess. I hadn’t the time to even bury the dead. They had burned where they had fallen. Luckily, a fortress made of stone did not encourage the flames to spread.

Outside, the weather had cleared, and a bright blue sky awaited me. At the bottom of the steps leading up to the fortress was an unexpected sight. Odin, my old, one-eyed packhorse that Yrsarald suggested we bring again, perked when he saw me. He nickered and happily shook out his mane. I whimpered with relief, and hobbled down to the horse to hug his thick, shaggy neck.

Before we left, I went back inside High Hrothgar to retrieve Ingjard’s crossbow and the rest of my belongings.

. . . . . .

Even before my descent was completed, I could see that Ivarstead was on fire. The entire town, like Riverwood, was made of wood, and nothing but a somewhat removed shack was spared. I didn’t need to use any Shout to sense that Torug and his warriors had been here.

I avoided the buildings, and decided to take the shortest route north-northwest. I found my map in Ingjard’s knapsack. The first leg would be rough, I knew from what Yrsarald had told me – one reason I had not taken this path before – but I knew if I pushed Odin, I could reach Windhelm in three days. Darkwater Mine. Mixwater Mill. Yes. I could do this. Odin could do this. We would have to ride well passed nightfall to get to the first stop, but it was possible.

“Let’s go home,” I encouraged him, gently nudging my heel against his side.

The horse’s saddle was not exactly meant for riding. I had been aching already, but the discomfort of sitting for hours on end on this packsaddle was ridiculous.

I let myself experience what I was feeling. I let this discomfort distract my brain from remembering that Ingjard was dead. Paarthurnax was dead. All of the Greybeards – _all of the Greybeards –_ were dead. Ivarstead and its people, and Snowflake and Potato, were likely dead.

“Odin,” I crooned, “what happened to them? Did they run? Did you know where you were going when you climbed that mountain?”

The horse made no attempt at responding to my questions. Not even his ears moved to listen. I supposed his appearance at the fortress was simply dumb luck.

 _Luck_. The word left a sour taste. I was wrong, so very wrong. I was not lucky. I was the opposite of lucky. Yes, I had survived, but only because I was Dragonborn… and only because of Hermaeus Mora.

The sourness in my mouth turned to a rotten bitterness, and I spat at the ground.

Hermaeus Mora, of all vile things to admit, had saved my life. That ghost of a Dragonborn had saved my life. I was alive. I was _alive_.

“Ingjard,” I muttered. “Are you still with me?”

It took talking to a ghost that was not there to admit just how horribly alone I was.

I gave Odin a pat and combed my fingers through his ratty hair. I took comfort in the feel of his warm softness, in his presence, in his being alive, too.

 

I didn’t sleep much, despite being safe, surrounded by people. The miners recognized me as this Lady Dragonborn they had all heard about, and realized quickly that I needed help, and a good night’s rest. They pampered me, offering food and drink and a mattress without a second thought. For the most part, I kept to myself. I had washed my face and hair, and sat on my little bed until morning. Despite their protests, I left behind a few gold coins as thanks.

On the road from the mine, Odin began to slow down. I tried to heal him, did what I could to figure out what was wrong, but the old beast was simply tired. Sometime around midday, I gave his back a rest, and walked instead.

About an hour later, he stopped moving altogether.

“Odin, please. I know… I know it’s hard. I am broken, too. But, please. We need to move. We are going home. Please, Odin. Please move.”

My senses stirred, alerting me to… something. I looked around us, but the road and hills were clear. The sky was clear.

“ _Laas yah nir_.” The whisper revealed only birds, rabbits, and a snake nearby, but further down the road to the north…. I squinted, as if the act would help me sense what was there. Whatever it was, I couldn’t identify its signature, and this I found unnerving. Odin, however, was fine – still refusing to move, but fine, tail swishing normally, ears in neutral position.

“I wonder if I can give you a stamina potion,” I muttered. I didn’t have any stamina potions, but I did have healing potions. Odin, however, was not injured.

The thing to the north finally came into view, dark and singular on the road. I drew Dawnbreaker from her sheath, eternally thankful that none of the attackers, if any had survived, had stolen it from High Hrothgar. Gripping the handle of the sword hurt. The leather glove cushioned some of the pressure, but the deep bone ache of my hand was hard to ignore. A small dose of healing magic calmed the throbbing, for now.

Closer the traveler came, and I made out the shape of a dark horse, mounted by a dark person. One person, on one horse.

“We can handle that,” I said to Odin. Another whisper of “ _laas_ ” revealed that the traveler posed no threat, at least none that was premeditated. The traveler was human, and not a vampire. Nevertheless, I held my sword tight, and cast Stoneflesh to make up for my broken armor, protecting the exposed areas of my body that were no longer covered by metal or leather.

The traveler approached, and I took note of the man’s armor. Scrappy, leather and cloth, brown and red and black. One sword sheathed at his left hip. Glints of metal in a diagonal row along his chest suggested either buckles or small knives. Throwing daggers, perhaps. He was deeply tanned – no, just darker-skinned than myself – and what I had thought were brown leather sleeves were actually his arms. His muscular, tattooed arms. His black hair was half pulled back into a ponytail, and his stubble camouflaged his facial tattoos, inked in the same dark lavender as those on his arms. His most striking feature, however, was his light grey eyes, which focused on me with a searing, calculating glare.

As the man passed, my breath caught. Aside from the smoothness of his hair, the man closely, too closely, resembled my ex-husband. It wasn’t him; I knew it wasn’t Greg, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t unsettled by the sight.

His black horse maintained a lazy pace and the traveler continued south, his gaze never breaking from me until the horse took him too far down the road. I sighed in relief, thankful that this person was just another lonely traveler who wasn’t particularly interested in me, or my money. I turned back to Odin, snatched his reins, and pulled forward. He still wouldn’t budge.

“Horse problems?” a deep voice came from behind me, unexpected and startling as it broke the ambience of birdsong and insect drones.

I turned to the traveler, who had halted his mount and turned it to me. “Ehh, yeah. Yes. I think he’s tired. He’s…,” I sighed, “he’s old. And a packhorse. I probably should not have ridden him.”

The man turned his horse around. “Are you alright?” His eyes followed the length of my body down and up again. “Were you attacked?”

His question hit my body like a punch to the gut, and I exhaled all the tension that had built upon sensing his approach. “No—yes. I-I mean….” My jaw hung open, unsure of what to say.

The man dismounted and approached. “May I?” He gestured toward my left cheek.

I nodded, and he gently grasped my chin, turning and tilting my head. He was eyeing the result of the collision between my face and a man’s armor that had left me gashed, bruised, and sore. As I hadn’t had a mirror, I had no way of knowing just how bad it was. Healing magic had helped with the initial pain, though. Below the tender cheek was my itchy, roughened jaw and neck where Torug’s dragonfire had burned me. No one at the mine had said anything to me about my injuries. Perhaps they were afraid to.

“Someone got ya good,” the man noted about my cheek. His voice was soothing, his tone confident, and professional. His accent was similar to Balgruuf’s; perhaps he was from Whiterun Hold.

Warmth caressed my face, and from the corner of my vision I could see the golden swirls of healing magic. The spell made me swoon, and I breathed easier. “Thank you.”

“Any other injuries?”

I shook my head. “No… nothing bad, anyway.” I held back a gag as I thought of the dead, mutilated Greybeards, and rubbed the back of my neck, which still hurt from Torug’s repeated yanking.

“Where are you heading?”

“Windhelm,” I answered through a small grunt.

“Ah, I just came from there.”

My heart fluttered with this revelation. “Is… is the city alright?”

“Hm? Yeah, it’s fine. Why?”

I began to tremble, nerves getting the best of me again. “I… was….” I swallowed hard, feeling my tears returning. “I just came from High Hrothgar. I was… _we_ were attacked. They’re dead. They’re….” My unsteady, ragged breaths did not take in enough air, and I swooned again. The man caught me, thankfully, and did not let go until I found my balance.

“High Hrothgar, hmm?”

I nodded.

“You don’t look like an orc, though.”

His words shocked me. “What?”

“The Dragonborn. I had heard he was an orc. And, well, a ‘he’.” The man took a step back. “Were you with him? At High Hrothgar?”

I blinked away more tears. “No. I was there.” I punched my chest. “ _I_ was there. He attacked _me_. He killed—“ I stopped myself, but I had no more reason not to talk about Paarthurnax. “He killed my friends… Greybeards… dragon….” I shook my head. “He isn’t Dragonborn.” I felt the sting of my own words, ignoring the spittle that arched onto the man’s armor. “He’s a mistake.”

The man’s demeanor shifted, and I watched as his posture softened. “Alright, alright.” He patted my shoulder, attempting to comfort me. “Look, I—it’s obvious your horse and you, too, are exhausted. Windhelm’s only a day and a half from here. Why don’t you ride with me on my horse. Leave the bags to this one.” He gestured to Odin.

“No, it… it’s fine. You just came from there. I—“

“Please, let me help, hm?” He unfastened a canteen from his hip and offered it to me. “Just water, though you look like you could use something stronger.” A gentle smirk perked his lips. “Go on,” he urged. “We can make it to Mixwater by nightfall if we leave soon.”

I took the canteen and, sniffling, managed a half-smile. “Thank you.”

“I’m Altanir, by the way. Stonefield.”

I swallowed the water and recapped the canteen. “Deborah. Deborah the Red.”

. . . . . .

The sun had set, but we were very close to Windhelm. Altanir, who had been traveling to Riften from Windhelm via Fort Amol where he had done some business, was pleasant and quiet throughout the journey. We rode together on his sturdy horse, me at his front, and he encouraged me to rest against his chest. I told him about High Hrothgar, about everything that had happened, and made sure he knew about the vampire attack at Markarth. I told him that I would be able to sense the vampires if they were near, but I wasn’t so sure I could sense Torug. I probably would, if I were awake and not meditating.

At the mention of vampires, Altanir groaned. “I am so tired of vampires. I spent a year hunting them in The Rift with my uncle and other members of the Dawnguard.”

“Dawnguard,” I repeated. Ingjard had mentioned them, months ago. I squirmed at the memory. “Vampire hunters.”

“Yeah.” I felt his body turn back, and then forward again. “That crossbow you have was made by one of them – Sorine. She’s kind of a master with—“

Altanir stopped mid-sentence to inhale sharply through his nose. I cast a few Candlelight spells around us and turned to look at him. He sniffed the air again, and pulled his horse to a stop.

“What is it?” I asked before trying to sense for myself. “ _Laas._ ” Owl. Fox. A lurking pack of wolves not far away. “There’s nothing,” I related.

“Smoke,” he said. “You don’t smell that?”

“Smoke? No.” I sniffed again. “Maybe.” My sinuses were clogged from all my crying; my sense of smell was not at its peak.

Altanir urged his horse forward again, and after about a mile, the Windhelm stables came into view. They were on fire.

Worry withered my nerves. Altanir kicked his horse into a trot and we climbed the stone walkway that led to the city gates, which were wide open. Inside the city walls, I saw the lick of more flames, and billowing, black smoke. Echoing toward us were the screams of Windhelm’s citizens within. And then I felt it.

My breath hitched. “No.” I swung down from Altanir’s horse and ran into the city, cringing with the pain left over from straining some muscle in my right leg combined with sitting too long on a horse. I cast Stoneflesh, and readied fire magic in my left hand.

It was the same signature, same sensation I had felt in Markarth. The vampires were here. They were here, attacking my city. I was wrong – I hadn’t sensed them from a day’s ride away. Or had they moved from the north? From the west? Did they move so fast I wouldn’t have been able to sense them in time, anyway?

“ _Laas yah nir!_ ” Red splotches dotted my vision. I pulled Dawnbreaker from her sheath and ripped through the city, passively noting what my dragon sense revealed within. Humans, elves, alive, undead.

“ _Wuld nah kest!”_ I darted past the dead bodies of mortals and vampires alike. Everything that could burn had been set aflame, torches lighting my way. I heard the clash of metal on metal and ran towards the sound, determined to save whoever was being attacked by the vampire that I knew was near.

I screamed as Dawnbreaker pierced the cloth robe and flesh of the undead woman in front of me, not waiting to watch her burn from the sword’s enchantment. Another vampire, a naked Khajiit man, came fast at me. Dawnbreaker eased into his throat, and Stoneflesh saved me from the burst of blood that came forth. I wiped my face and moved on, north to the palace. I knew Yrsarald was there; I could feel his heart racing.

Dawnbreaker claimed seven more vampires along the way, the explosion of light sending several more fleeing for their unlives. As an eighth vampire fell, I realized that Altanir was right behind me, defending the people of the city, slaying vampires with a shimmering sword. With every strike of his weapon, as with mine, vampires were set aflame. Altanir followed me to the palace, maintaining a small ward with his left hand. He was apparently a battlemage, and I was glad for it.

Ascending the steps to the palace courtyard, I nearly crashed into a guard before I found Yrsarald, who was wearing some sort of leather armor. Vampires were surrounding him, Wuunferth, Calder, and Jorleif. My mage mentor was casting the ward orb spell he had learned from me. The magic protected him and the others, but as he had just learned the spell days ago, the magic was unsteady. Vampires broke the ward regularly, forcing Wuunferth to recast it. Yrsarald and Calder, both wielding axes and shields, held off the majority of the attacks. Jorleif handled a greatsword with ease.

I wanted to call out to Yrsarald, to tell him I was home, but I worried about distracting him. Instead, I joined in the defense, and Altanir followed. My grunts and screams and flashes of magic finally caught my lover’s attention.

“Deborah!” he called, grunting through attacks as well.

“I’m here, Yrsa!” Another vampire, a tattooed Forsworn woman, cast a fog of red, blood-like magic at me, but whatever it was meant to do had failed. I lunged forward, slicing her neck with the tip of my sword and continuing in an arc to do the same to an approaching forsworn man wearing a deer antler headdress. The magical explosion from Dawnbreaker, ignited once the forsworn woman fell, killed several surrounding vampires and sent others to their knees in fright. Altanir protected my back, his ward blocking the blows and various spells of attacking vampires.

A hard warmth pulled me against it and spun me around. Yrsarald. He stole a quick kiss before bashing a short, shrieking vampire woman with his shield. “They attacked at sundown!”

I cast a fireball at two more vampires, who were dressed in nothing but cloth and casting ice spears at guards. “It’s the Markarth vampires! Yrsa—behind!”

Yrsarald spun and held his shield before his body, blocking the blow of a mace wielded by a lumbering, undead, bald Nord, a man wearing the armor of a Stormcloak. Three more vampires behind him also wore armor, that of Stormcloaks and Imperials alike.

The missing soldiers. They were turned. They were vampires. They were Torug’s vampires.

“How many— _Yol!_ ” I breathed deep, recovering from the Shout that set the undead soldiers on fire. “How many have you killed?”

A fatal scream behind us interrupted his answer. I watched in horror as Jorleif was decapitated by the claws of an undead Khajiit, who then wasted no time in heading towards me.

“ _Fus!_ ” The Shout sent the Khajiit vampire stumbling back over Jorleif’s headless corpse. Yrsarald ran forward, offering the same fate to the vampire that he had given Jorleif. My husband-to-be spared no time mourning the loss of his steward, and instead returned to my side before pressing his back to mine.

“I lost count!” he finally replied. “They’re everywhere, Deborah!”

Another wave of vampires came from all around. Calder sliced through several of their bellies with one well-timed swoop, but that would not kill the attackers, not outright. I cast a few bursts of fire at the vampires, thankful it distracted them long enough for Calder to end their unlives.

Wuunferth, who had maintained the ward orb until now, faltered, keeling over with exhaustion.

“ _Tiid klo ul!”_ Everyone but myself and Wuunferth was left unaffected by the Shout. I helped my mentor stand, letting him brace himself against my body. Holding him with one hand, I reached into my small purse, which I had thankfully found, and felt for a potion. Finding the blue bottle, I uncorked it with my teeth and dribbled some of the syrup into Wuunferth’s mouth. Potion tucked safely back into my purse, I cupped Wuunferth’s face in my hands. “Fire, Wuunferth. You attack; I’ll protect. Alright?”

The old mage pushed himself off of me, stumbling somewhat, and straightened his robe before lurching forward to tug on my forearm. He pulled me behind his body as he cast with one hand a steady stream of strong fire magic at slow-moving vampires. His other hand joined, and cast fireball after fireball.

“I trust this is one of your Shouts!?” he bellowed, and then laughed, clearly enjoying himself as he continued his attack.

“It won’t last forever – be ready!” I positioned myself between Wuunferth and Yrsarald, and cast the undead-blocking circle around us that Darius had taught me. Practice had strengthened the spell, but only somewhat. Realizing that it did not block the vampire’s spells, however, I switched to my stronger ward orb. Everyone moved at the same speed, again.

“Where is Ingjard!?” Yrsarald called.

My mouth quivered with the hanging answer. I almost said it, almost said the words that filled me with tears and rage, but I held back. Later. Later….

Ignoring his question, I Shouted flames at the vampires in front of me, wishing I had the use of my arms while the wide ward orb was maintained; I was lucky that I could at least hold onto a sword while casting with my right hand. I looked over my shoulder to find Altanir within the ward now, still protecting me.

Reality hit. My armor, most of it, anyway, was no longer enchanted. I had neglected to check whether or not my various bits of jewelry still shimmered, too. I wondered how long I could maintain this ward orb spell without the aid of multiple enchantments. Worried I would run out of magic reserves, I decided to lower the ward, for now. I would cast it again, later, if I had to.

“Shields up!” I yelled, and let the ward whither. I maintained the simple Stoneflesh spell upon myself, instead.

The vampires came in waves, always three or more at a time from any given direction. There must have been hundreds. Dawnbreaker set those who attacked me on fire, decapitating some, crippling the rest.

Three vampires closed in on my left, two of them Argonians and one of them an Imperial soldier. A wash of fire magic curbed their advance before Dawnbreaker’s blast felled them all, hitting others nearby as the spell spread like a ripple across a pond.

It was obvious now that the missing Markarth soldiers had been turned, like Ralof. Unlike him, however, these soldiers had not resisted whatever spell Torug or another vampire held over them. Where else had this horde gone? Who else had they killed? Were these Torug’s children? A chill flitted up my spine and I knew that this was the case. These vampires, all of them, were Torug’s. These were his children, and they were attacking the cities of Skyrim. Or, were they just attacking Windhelm?

Roaring screams ripped me from my thoughts. I cast a ward orb as I turned to see Yrsarald thrashing, tossing a vampire from his body. Several were inside my ward orb. Another jumped him, and then another. It all happened too fast. I watched the smaller of the two vampires, an elf, sink her teeth into Yrsarald’s neck. Calder felled one with his axe, but then he, too, was jumped, and then dragged away screaming. The screaming stopped. A guard killed the vampire who had killed Calder.

I cried out to Yrsarald, and Shouted for time to stand still. The effect had failed to slow the vampire still clinging to my lover, but the undead elf was soon ripped off by Yrsarald’s strong arms and thrown several meters away, breaking my ward. Altanir, not affected this time by the Shout, severed the elf’s head, and moved on to the next round of attacks.

The world around Yrsarald and I shimmered in a haze of blue, and guards and vampires alike danced in battle. Yrsarald coughed and growled. I cast strong healing magic upon him, not bothering to note exactly where, or how, he had been injured, but knowing he had been bitten at least once.

“Yrsa! Yrsa, I’m here. I’m here!” I bent over his huddled form, healing hands still pressed to his body. I tightened my arms around him.

The man continued his low growl, and I heard him begin to pant. He stood abruptly, throwing me from him in the process. He whipped toward me, and roared something that might have been words. His eyes flashed yellow, and his teeth had already begun to increase in size.

He was shifting.

“Yrsa! Don’t! We can take them!”

He lunged forward, shoving me back, nearly sending me to the ground. I looked to my side, worried the Shout’s effect would soon come to an end.

“ _Tiid klo ul!”_ Another minute. I had another minute to try to calm him down.

Yrsarald had bent over again, his roars increasing in volume. I started for his side but was again shoved away. Just as I caught my balance I watched as Yrsarald convulsed, falling forward to the courtyard ground. His body’s girth expanded, shredding his armor. The shift was fast, so much faster than it had been before.

Transformation complete, Yrsarald thrust his head up in a terrifying roar that echoed against the courtyard walls, hurting my ears. He then lunged forward, swiping with deadly strikes at a group of vampires and guards alike. Again. Again. He bowled through the crowded courtyard toward the palace, taking down anything that stood in his path.

“Yrsa! Stop it!” I gripped Dawnbreaker tightly. I readied lightning magic in my left hand, and approached the hulking beast that was my lover. “Yrsa!”

Yrsarald spun toward me, arm outstretched, and claws flared.

“ _Tiid!”_

Too late.

I fell back with the force, landing in someone’s arms. The world continued to move slowly, this time affecting Yrsarald, but not whoever had caught me. I clutched at my stinging throat, unsure why I was suddenly gasping for air and choking on a rush of warm liquid.

“Shit. Shit, shit,” the man who held me muttered. He laid me back and moved to my front. Altanir. His left hand pressed against mine, putting pressure on my neck, and I felt the warmth of healing magic. Altanir’s sword clinked to the ground, and his right hand fumbled for something before holding a cold object to my lips.

“Drink!” he screamed, and I opened my mouth. He spilled the entirety of the sticky goo onto my tongue. I tried to swallow, but my throat disobeyed. I tried again, and felt the potion mix with my own blood as it traveled down my esophagus.

Altanir’s healing magic continued. He looked around us, and then behind him, and then back to me. With much effort, I found the strength to heal myself, adding to the man’s efforts. Finally, with a gurgling wheeze, I was able to breathe again, however full my lungs felt.

“ _Feim!”_ I attempted to Shout, but my lungs barely produced a rasping whisper. Altanir braced me through a coughing fit. Unfortunately, most Shouts required more than just moving lips to take form.

“Hold still!” Altanir yelled, continuously healing my neck. The world around us moved normally again. The man turned to look behind him and backed away from me, cursing as he reached for his sword.

I pushed myself up on my elbows and watched as Yrsarald lunged at Altanir, maw gnashing, ready to devour him with one lethal bite. Arrows from somewhere behind me found their target and sunk deep into Yrsarald’s left shoulder, halting his advance. I screamed for him, but only a horrible squeak sounded. Pushing myself to my feet, I cast Stoneflesh and ran to Altanir’s side, futilely shouting for the man to stop attacking my lover. I pulled at Altanir, yanking him behind me as I cast a simple ward in front of us both. Yrsarald, impacted with several more arrows, roared into my face and took another swipe. Altanir pulled me back in time to not be killed, but Yrsarald’s claws broke my ward and scraped against the armor spell that protected me. I felt the tingle of lightning magic cast itself across my body. A lightning cloak. Altanir flinched away, yelping.

I tried to Shout again, but the Words would not come. I cast another ward in front of me and watched as Yrsarald took down more vampires, and more guards, and then Wuunferth. A scream rattled its way out of my lungs. I felt the roll of tears on my face as my mentor was flung too easily from where he stood. His body crashed against a wall, fell, and remained still. Yrsarald stomped to the side and turned, and once more roared in my direction, his aggression staying focused on me.

“Yrsa,” I rasped, sound barely audible to myself.

My lover started for me, powerful, long legs pushing his body forward fast. Too fast. My voice failed me one final time. Stoneflesh held, but Yrsarald broke my ward, smashing into me.

I reacted.

As his body met with mine, Dawnbreaker pierced his side, thrusting up at an angle toward his lungs, setting him on fire. My right hand and face felt the heat. His roar ceased, replaced by a hissing gasp. We spun. I landed atop him, and the front of my body burned until I was pulled away. Altanir threw me to the side, and I watched as the man’s sword entered Yrsarald’s right eye, adding to the fire that now enshrouded my husband-to-be.

I wanted to scream. I needed to scream. I choked on my own efforts, and was pulled to my feet by someone else.

“Come on, Deborah!” a woman’s voice yelled from behind me. She swerved to my front and removed her helmet. Hrina. My friend, and palace guard. “We need to leave! Now!” she ordered before replacing her helmet and thrusting her sword into another vampire. “Deborah!” Hrina pulled Dawnbreaker from Yrsarald’s torso and handed it to me.

I was hesitant to take the weapon; it still had Yrsarald’s blood on the blade. Yrsarald’s blood. _Yrsarald’s blood._ Hrina, impatient, slipped Dawnbreaker into the sheath at my hip, and recommenced defending me against vampires.

My palms burned and tingled. My left hand warmed, and I readied the ward orb spell. Could I cast it with one hand? While I tried, I brought my right hand to my throat, healing as much as I could.

As my breaths began to come easier, I watched as a wall of blue light encased me, and only me, in a cylinder-shaped ward. The humming of the magic drowned out Hrina’s shouting, but she was again pulled from me by a need to kill more vampires.

They kept coming. Vampires of all races had stormed the city. There were simply too many. There was no end.

I kept healing my throat. I needed to be able to Shout. Without this skill, I was next to helpless. Torug taught me this lesson.

Fluid filled my mouth and I spit, knowing by the taste that it was mostly blood. But my throat and neck felt better, and my breaths were no longer weak, rattling wheezes.

I hummed, testing my voice. I heard it. “Yrsa,” I uttered, clearly, without faulting despite my trembling. I breathed deep, stretching my diaphragm, as I maintained the healing spell.

 _This ends here,_ my mind growled. _Your filth dies tonight, Torug._

Breathe. Breathe.

_Blade of the Sun._

Breathe.

_“Krein tuz ag!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Krein Tuz Ag, “Sun Blade Burn”_


	47. Riften

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Good feels songs for this chapter are “Get Up” Barcelona, “Braces” Emma Louise, and “Like a River Runs” Bleachers/Sia (in that order)._  
>  I’m so sorry.

I jumped up from a shaking wooden floor, screaming Yrsarald’s name, though the sound was muted and harsh. A suite of hands held me down, pressing against my shoulders and chest. My eyes were pained by light. I shielded my face with my forearm and squeezed my eyelids shut. Was that the sun? The wooden floor was moving. I smelled sulfur, and horses.

“Woman, I swear, next time you scream like that I won’t bother healing that throat of yours.”

Who was that? Altanir? He was angry. Warmth enshrouded my neck, and I knew he was healing me again. I choked on a sob.

“Damn it all, you burst a stitch.”

“Don’t you have any more of that sleeping potion?” A woman. Hrina. I recognized her thick accent.

“I would have used it already if I had.”

“Is she awake?” a child asked.

Hrina, to my right, clicked her tongue. “Not now. Go on.” She shooed the child away.

“H-hrin—?” I tried, stumbling through the guard’s name.

Altanir growled. “Don’t. Talk.”

“I’m here, Deborah.”

I tried to form the word “where”, but Altanir’s healing hand at my throat clamped down.

“Don’t you dare,” he barked.

I reached out to Hrina, and forced my eyes open. The woman smiled down at me. “We’re almost halfway to Riften, now,” she said. “The vampires didn’t follow us to Kynesgrove. Everyone – everyone who, who could,” she looked away, face strained and suddenly pale, “they’re here, with us, in carts that the Stormcloaks had at the camp. Some are walking, though, or on horseback.”

“Rif-ten,” I mouthed, questioning.

Hrina nodded. “Marcurio and Bird are there, last I heard. And you were mumbling or… trying to mumble… the word in your sleep. Altanir agrees it’s a good place to go, since it’s near the Dawnguard fortress.”

“Not near,” the man corrected, “just not as far as Windhelm.”

I continued to eye Hrina, mouth beginning to tremble as I thought through my next question. I couldn’t think the words, let alone mouth them. I clutched at the amulet of Mara still hung from its chain around my sore neck.

Yrsarald. _Yrsarald…._

Hrina’s expression shifted from one of compassion to misery. Her lips parted, but words failed her, too.

I closed my eyes, not wanting to believe. When Hrina’s hand clasped mine, squeezing tightly, I knew it was true.

Yrsarald was dead.

Yrsarald was dead.

_Yrsarald was dead._

Sobs began to wrack my body, and I heard Altanir curse before a dizzying warmth came over me, and I calmed.

. . . . . .

“Ouch!” I flinched from Altanir’s hands. My voice was still ragged, and what should have been an exclamation of pain was rather a broken hiss.

“I barely touched you,” he claimed, and again attacked my throat with a cloth and threaded needle. My stitches needed to be redone. Again. Marcurio would have done the deed, but he couldn’t look at me without shaking.

I closed my eyes, and tried to relax. 

“Crying so much probably isn’t helping the healing process, you know,” the man continued. “And you should be doing this at the temple of Mara with an actual healer, not in this moldy room with a butcher.”

I opened my eyes to find Altanir smirking.

“Yes, I know, you don’t want to be seen.” A small dose of healing magic warmed my right cheek and chin, which were decorated by less threatening gashes than the one on my throat.

“That… thing you did,” he said, softer, stumbling through his words, “that shouting, back in Windhelm… my ears were singing until the next morning. It hurt. I felt it in my gut, the force of what you did. An’ the way those vampires just… just….” He shook his head, and silky black tresses fell forward from behind his ears. He retucked them, annoyed by the distraction.

“What?” I rasped.

“Ash, Deborah. They turned to ash. Not all of them, but many. Most. All in a circle around you. Light just… blinded. I saw a spell like that, once, at the Dawnguard fortress, but what you did, that wasn’t a spell. And it was far stronger.” He pursed his lips, and his brow furrowed. “Everyone else, everyone not a vampire, was… not affected. It was somethin’ to see, for sure. That is, after the sun-like explosion. Shame you had to miss it. You almost died, trying to save the city. You and your throat are lucky I was standing right there.”

Another stitch was placed, and I winced and yelped with the pinch and dragging sensation.

“Oh, stop your whining.” He smirked again. “But hey, at least I got you to feel somethin’, eh?”

I hoped that my face conveyed the grumbling I was too sore to do.

“I know, I know, you wanted somethin’ to dull the pain. Your friends didn’t want you drinking all their wine. Sorry.” His voice faltered, and he cleared his throat. “And, anyway, what would happen if you were drunk an’ the vampires came to Riften? Hmm?” His brows rose as he continued to torture and lecture me at the same time.

I wanted to punch him, but the man had a needle at my throat.

“You know, my wife,” he began, “she died three years ago. A sudden, quick illness. Our boys are grown; twins.” He smiled. “We’re fine now, you know? But, she was special, like you. I mean, not _like_ you, but—” He coughed; it sounded fake. “This… Yrsarald, he was special. Even if, in the end….”

Altanir wisely stopped his sentence. The man had no right to talk about Yrsarald. No right at all. Though I knew he was not solely responsible for Yrsarald’s death, he had still executed the final strike. His sword, which I learned was a sort of silver-steel amalgamation intended to be deadly to vampires, had penetrated my lover’s brain, and I watched it happen. Looking at Altanir, all I ever saw, aside from a disorienting resemblance to Greg, was that killing blow. The scene played again and again in my mind:  Yrsarald gasping, thrusting sword, Yrsarald quiet. Blood. Blood. Blood.

It didn’t matter that at least six arrows had pierced Yrsarald’s flesh. It didn’t matter that my sword, by my hand, had pierced Yrsarald’s left lung. Altanir defended me and everyone else in Windhelm by stopping Yrsarald’s brain. Instead, he should have used the calming spell he seemed to know well. He should have, but he didn’t. Perhaps I should have learned a calming spell. I didn’t. I didn’t….

Altanir had kept talking. I hadn’t noticed. I caught up with him mid-sentence. “— _not_ a nice person after Nadège died. I was lost. I was angry.” He tensed for a moment, pulling away from me, but with a breath, relaxed again and returned to my neck. “It’s going to take a while, a long while, but you’ll be alright.”

A sturdy knock at the door allowed a much needed break from Altanir’s chatter and evil needle. The knocker was a skinny elf, a Bosmer. She walked inside, carrying a small pouch. Her armor was of tight leather, and a full quiver and simple bow were hitched to her back. A dagger was sheathed at each hip. Though everything about her was striking, her rich green hair and wide, green facial tattoos had me staring.

“There,” she huffed, letting the pouch fall into Altanir’s hand. “It wasn’t easy to get.” Her voice was stern, and more rough than expected. The elf waited with an upturned palm for something, probably payment. She eyed me with a surprising amount of undue resentment.

Altanir simply placed the pouch right back in her hand. “Sorry. Changed my mind.”

The elf scoffed. “Fine. Back to the Ratway I go, then.” Her voice trailed, but I heard her say something about a favor, and then something outside was kicked.

Altanir shut the door and returned to me, to our bucket of bloody water, and to my mutilated throat.

“That was Neriwen. Good friend of mine. I work with her a lot.”

“Pouch?” I voiced.

“Hm? Nah. Nevermind that. You don’t want it.”

“What?”

Altanir sighed. “A very, very strong medicine that will put you to sleep. It isn’t for you. Too hard to come off of it. Now please, stop talking an’ let your damn throat heal.”

. . . . . .

I liked the deck on the side of Marcurio and Bird’s house. It offered a vista of the large lake to the west. I could sit for hours with my bare feet dangling in the warm, southern breeze, legs slid through the spokes of the railing, hands grasping the wooden bars as if they were a prison. Indeed they almost were. The deck and its railing called to me, and I was always reluctant to leave. Staring at that placid lake was almost as good as going to a professional therapist. Probably.

I didn’t even notice my hairy legs anymore. In the north, I had worn leggings or trousers every day and it was easy to forget body hair. Having shaved them for almost twenty years before leaving my own world, I had wondered if I would ever get used to being hairy there and everywhere else I had previously grown accustomed to shaving. The lack of societal pressure to shave _anything_ made it easy to forget, though. Now in the south of Skyrim, I rarely wore full leggings; I rarely wore actual clothes. Mostly, I just walked around the house in linen underarmor, which, if I was honest, was perfect. On the rare occasion I did go into the town center, Marcurio forced me to dress properly. He had bought me some dresses and shirts and trousers when I arrived months ago.

It was little more than a shack, the house, but it was one of very few unoccupied homes in Riften, and the refugees from the north had little choice. We were lucky enough that Marcurio’s mother was the Priestess of Arkay in the town, and she held onto Marcurio’s family money which helped him buy a better-than-nothing home. Still, the only bedroom was occupied by Marcurio and Bird and Flavia, while I was sequestered to what was meant to be a storage room. We were lucky for Marcurio’s small fortune. Everything we had owned was still in Windhelm was likely destroyed by fire, or by vampires.

What was today? It was Sun’s Dawn. That much I knew. Sun’s Dawn. Nearly spring. Spring. _Spring._ Wedding. I bit my tongue, not allowing myself to wallow on the painful what if. Instead, I thought of Flavia. Giggly, wriggly Flavia. She was one year old; this was difficult to believe.

Sun’s Dawn, year 204. One, two, three. Three years I’d been here in this world. Over three fucking years, and what did I have? A daughter that was not mine, a face and neck full of scars, a dead fiancé, and—

“Hey, sweetheart.”

I stiffened at the sound, and my legs ceased kicking the air.

“Bird said you’d be here.” Stenvar scraped a chair up close to my right side and sat himself down.

I turned away, toward my left. I didn’t want him to see me like this, with my scars barely healed. They were taking forever; even the priests of Mara couldn’t tell me why. Marcurio’s mother, Alessandra, thought this was due to the scars being inflicted by a werebear, a supernatural being, similar to how a ghost-blade had scarred a client of hers for life. And, likewise, how Stenvar’s face and Yrsarald’s chest had never fully healed from magical frostbite. These slashes on my face and neck, as well as the burn scars from Torug’s Shout, were permanent. Permanent scars. Even my body would never let me forget.

When we, Windhelm’s refugees, had arrived in Riften, I was unconscious. I had not been witness to Hrina and Altanir explaining to my friends what had happened. I had not seen the reactions on Marcurio and Bird’s faces. Maybe Stenvar knew about my scars, about the attack, but he did not need to see my face. I didn’t want him to see my face.

“I heard what happened,” Stenvar said. “People talk. The rumors ‘re far worse than the truth, thankfully.” I listened to rustling noises, some light grunting, and then I smelled mead. “Not talkin’, eh? Alright, then I’ll talk for the both of us.”

I heard him stand from the chair, and then felt his proximity. He had sat himself as I was, legs thrust over the deck edge, bumping into me a couple of times.

“The boys tell me you aren’t eatin’ enough. By the look of ya I’d have to agree.”

The mention of eating turned my stomach, and I suppressed a violent retch.

“Just… promise me, promise your family that you’ll take care of yourself.” He was speaking delicately, his tone softer than usual. “You might not care, or think you don’t care, but I _know_ you do. Deb, you just,” he sighed, fidgeting, “ya need to push yourself. Push yourself through this. I’m not tellin’ ya not to grieve. Feel sad. Feel sad forever. Fine. Just… eat more. He wouldn’t want you n’… he wouldn’t want you to suffer more than ya have to. Even I know this. He would want you healthy. Especially now… with the vampires.” He sighed, and remained quiet for a while.

“They haven’t been seen, by the way. Not since Windhelm. After you… did what you did – _gods_ , what I would give to ’ve seen that – guards and soldiers went back to the city n’ finished ‘em off in the morning. The city is… well, you saw it. It’s bad. The palace is alright, mostly. Everyone fears another attack, but nothin’s been heard or seen of any vamp’ attacks since that night. Strange, if you ask me. Anyway…. There’s no jarl in the city. People are… well, there’s lots of fightin’. The law is, you’re Jarl now, since you were, first, the intended of the Jarl, and, then….”

He didn’t say it, but I knew what he was thinking. I killed Yrsarald. I killed a jarl who had no heir but me. By law, I was the Jarl of Windhelm, now.

“The city’s a mess,” he continued. “I wouldn’t wanna be there, but if you don’t return soon, someone else’ll take your place. There’s a man, forget his name – Winter something – good man. And, honestly, I think he’d make a good jarl. So, if you don’t wanna return—”

“Why are you telling me this?” I grated, still unable to voice words fully. I refrained from turning to the man, and kept my gaze fixed on a small island within the lake.

“Because, Deb,” he said, putting an unwelcomed arm around my shoulders, “Yrsarald was the Jarl of Windhelm, and you have a right, if you choose to claim it. If you were born here, you’d understand. Claims to land n’ titles, people take these things very seriously. Usually. Though, not nearly as seriously as people in Cyrodiil do.” He chuckled.

“And that he was not human?” I pushed my breath out as hard as I could, but as much as I would have liked to, I could not yell. “Do they care? Do they care that I am not truly human? And that I was going to marry a werebear!?”

“Some,” he answered. “Some do care. Not gonna lie. Most care more that you are Dragonborn, which is thought to be a good thing, in case you haven’t noticed.”

My throat hurt. I didn’t want to talk, anymore, and I shrugged Stenvar off of me. A short while passed before he spoke again.

“Yrsarald was given a jarl’s funeral,” Stenvar continued. “I wasn’t there, but I was told it was nice. The people liked him. He was good to them. He’s in the Hall of the Dead, now, with Ulfric. It was one of the few places that avoided the fire. And… I saw him. It was him, not a werebear. He must’ve… must’ve changed back.” It was obvious that Stenvar was uncomfortable discussing the fact that Yrsarald was a werebear. Indeed, the revelation had shocked everyone. I understood.

“The old palace mage – forget his name, sorry – he died, too. So did Jorleif. All the rest of the dead were burned after them. There was,” he sniffled loudly, “there were a lot.” He cleared his throat. I figured he had started to cry, but the emotion didn’t last.

“The weapon rest is still on. Everyone’s too fucking scared of more possible vampire attacks to even stay at war camps. Everyone wants to be home with their family. I don’t really blame ‘em. And, Jenassa’s doin’ better. She n’ Brelyna are in Winterhold. Brelyna wanted to learn more magic like that kid used. Darius. Jenassa found work in town. She keeps busy. It’s good for ‘er. They were talkin’ about visiting Solstheim, but didn’t know when. Oh, and Darius n’ Sharash recruited a bunch of people to form vampire huntin’ groups. The biggest group’s now in Whiterun, partially ‘cause the Companions are there. Selina joined ‘em. Said she tried to join this other group called the Dawnguard but they refused her. Probably ‘cause… well, she said that you know. She’s a werewolf.” He barked a laugh. “I gotta say, I kinda knew. Woman likes to bite.” He continued to laugh, but stopped himself and cleared his throat. “Didn’t see that comin’ with Yrsarald, though. Not at all. I’m… I’m sorry, truly, about what happened. _How_ it happened. I… I hope you’re talkin’ to someone about this. About it all. If not your friends, then a priest. The temple of Mara is right here; they’re the best for this kind of thing. They don’t just restore health, ya know?” Stenvar patted me on the shoulder, and stood.

“I got people to meet, now, but I’ll be in town for a while. A week, maybe. You can find me at the tavern by the market.” He returned the chair from where he had moved it. “Oh, and, I ehh, I put a couple of chests inside. Helped Marc n’ Bird move ‘em to your room. They’re locked, so I didn’t know what was inside, but…. The palace didn’t escape the fire. Lots of it burned. One of those chests is charred, but it survived. So, hopefully there’s something good in ‘em.”

I cocked my head, listening, but still not turning fully to Stenvar. I tried to speak, meaning to thank him, but nerves, anger, and scar tissue prevented the sounds from forming. I listened to Stenvar walk away, neither of us saying goodbye.

Later, I sat staring at the two large chests Stenvar had told me about. I recognized them immediately. The charred one was Yrsarald’s, one he had kept extraneous objects in. The other was my main storage chest, the one where I had kept all of my old journals and other small belongings. This one I had opened, checking to see if anything had been damaged.

The journals and books were in perfect condition. The first I picked up, the one at the top of the pile, was the book of songs Stenvar had given me. I felt awful that I had not thanked him for bringing these chests all the way from Windhelm. I would have to remedy that, soon.

Yrsarald’s chest remained locked. I didn’t have the key, for one, but even if I did, I would never have been able to bring myself to open it.

I wasn’t sure what was inside. I didn’t usually make note of what Yrsarald had put inside his storage chests. With my luck, it was probably some old administrative or military documents from the Great War. I decided to leave the chest locked, for now.

. . . . . .

Two weeks later, I once again sat staring at Yrsarald’s charred chest. Someone, likely clever Altanir or his elven friend who I suspected was a professional thief, had snuck into my room to open the lock. The chest was still closed; I had no way of knowing if someone had looked inside. I was annoyed that no one had asked my permission, asked me if I even wanted the chest to be opened. I had the choice, though, to reclose the lock. All it would take was a twist and a push. Simple. Two seconds and the chest would be locked again and I would never know what was inside.

The day had been a long one, full of forced interaction with my family and friends. I didn’t even have any wine. I did, however, have food thrust in front of me all day. When I broke down in tears, I was finally allowed to go to my room and just be alone.

I needed the tears and the pain and the breathlessness. I needed to let myself _feel_ during those rare moments when I was not numb. My face still hurt from the sobbing. That, and my still-healing scars. Nearly six months had passed and I was still disfigured, and in pain. Thankfully, the only mirror in the house was in Marcurio and Bird’s bedroom. I did not want to see myself.

The chest. Yrsarald’s chest. I was already crying, so why not? Why not lift that chest lid and see what Stenvar had brought for me? It was probably a pile of rusted armor, or perhaps more of that root Yrsarald made teas out of.

Large, hot tears streamed down my face. I would again never have to make Yrsarald’s morning tea.  

Kicking myself from the bed, I walked over to the chest, and lifted the lid.

Sketches. Tons of sketches. The one on top was of a dress, and there were several versions of it on other papers, some of which were scratched out. The charcoal designs were scant in detail, but I knew what this was.

Yrsarald had sketched my wedding gown. I gawked at what looked like the most detailed dress, complete with notes and labels. _Blue. Gold. Flow. Yes, this one. Marcurio – yes._ Arthritic pain clamped down on my right hand just in time to stop me from scrunching the paper, and the sketch fluttered to the ground. I hastily picked it up and gathered the rest of the papers to place them all safely on top of a short bookshelf.

I stared at the sketch some more, wondering if this was the final version, the vision of what Yrsarald had apparently seen me wearing for our wedding day, a day that might have been happening soon, if….

I pressed through the pain, and looked back to the chest. Old journals, old clothing, and – fur? A cloak, of some sort. I pulled out the books and clothes before the hefty cloak, placing everything on the bookshelf. The cloak was definitely the last thing in the chest, and it was—

“Oh, gods,” I breathed. “Yrsa….”

It was a fur cloak, all right. A cloak made from a bear’s pelt, complete with forepaws, and claws. It was the top of Yrsarald’s old Stormcloak officer’s uniform, the one that had become stained with Ulfric’s blood and brains. I dropped the tunic, horrified, meaning to scream but only managing a gasp.

I sat back on the bed and stared at the stained lump of fur. Yrsarald had said that he burned the thing! Burned the ruined uniform to rid himself of the memory. That was what he said. He said that to my face. _God damn it!_

I kicked the emptied chest, and something rolled inside against the wood. Peering in, I saw a small black bottle that looked familiar. Even before I picked it up, I recognized the vial as the one Wuunferth had given to Yrsarald after Ulfric had died, the potion that could allow Yrsarald to perhaps see into the in-between, to make it easier for him to communicate with ghosts. I thought Yrsarald had finished the potion.

Falling back onto the bed, vial in hand, I thought no more of it and ripped the cork out with my teeth before drinking the entirety of its rancid flower-flavored contents. I gagged and nearly vomited, but forced the liquid to stay down.

I had to try. I had to at least attempt to see if Yrsarald was there, with me. Even Ingjard’s or Wuunferth’s ghost would have been a comfort.

“Yrsa?” I rattled. “Ingjard? Anyone?” I looked around the room, but nothing had changed. Perhaps the concoction had an expiration date. Perhaps I had just poisoned myself.

The silence was infinitely more jarring now that I had expected otherwise.

I collapsed onto the bed in a fresh round of sobs, curling into myself and covering my face with my pillow.

 

Some time later, I woke from a tear-induced nap. My gaze was immediately met with the bloody cloak on my floor, left undisturbed by the other occupants of the house. Calmer now, I swung myself toward the uniform and picked it up. The blood had turned dark brown, and had been flaking from the fur and leather. It brushed off with my hand, and I cleaned it as best I could in this manner before splaying the tunic across my small bed. I stared down at the chest area, at the two bear paws, and recalled the day Yrsarald and I sat together in his bed when I was pregnant with Flavia. He had wanted me to lean against his chest, but I had refused on account of the massive claws that would have dug into my back.

_Yrsarald was still smiling when he reached out again for the journal, and I handed it to him. He then reached out his other hand to me. "What?" I asked._

_"Come," he said, curling his fingers in a motion for me to come to him._

_"Come what?"_

_"Come here, sit." He patted the space on the bed in front of him._

_Somewhat confused but also intrigued, I crawled up the bed toward him._

_"Turn around and lean on me, so we can read together."_

_I looked at him as if he was nuts. "I do not want to lean against bear paws," I said, tilting my head to his uniform top._

_Yrsarald had apparently forgotten what he was wearing. He shook his head and laughed at himself, left the bed, and removed the uniform top. "Unf," he grunted, stretching, "I will just put on my linens. I should not sit in my bed in these old trousers." He removed his old-looking, and likely not very clean hide pants._

_I nervously cleared my throat as he changed, but that time did not look away. "You… have a habit of removing your clothes around me," I said, giggling after. The man said nothing and didn't look at me as he pulled on a pair of linen trousers. He was grinning, though, and more than likely blushing._

No longer caring about the claws, I laid myself down upon the somewhat clean uniform, head pressed between the bear paws, and closed my eyes. With one hand, I smoothed up and down the fur and leather, imagining it to be warm with Yrsarald’s heat, and stiff with the firmness of his torso. I felt his lumberjack arm around my back. I felt his fingers run through my hair. I heard his heartbeat. I smelled his scent.

I knew it was all in my mind; I forced myself to pretend that it was real.

“Yrsa,” I whispered, “I’m here.” I struggled against more tears. “I’m right here, with you, in the palace.” My airway closed momentarily, and I gulped away the congestion. “I never left. I never left you, and we’re back home. We’re together, for always. Always, Yrsa.” I bit my thumb, trying to overpower the pain I felt in my heart, but it was no use.

I could no longer speak. Sobbing turned into silent wails. Breath came in strangled heaves. My mouth strained in a terrible, silent scream, and I clutched at a hand that was not there.

. . . . . .

“Marc, please, don’t—“

“Enough, Deb!” Marcurio tossed Yrsarald’s uniform into an old sack. “It has Ulfric’s blood all over it! And who knows what else.”

“But I—“

“It isn’t healthy,” he defended himself. “You’ve been exhausting yourself crying over this.”

“Not to mention that other thing,” Bird mumbled, garnering glares from both Marcurio and me.

“I just….” My chin quivered.  My voice had strengthened in the last month, but it was now shaking with heartache, and with fear. I couldn’t help that I was being emotional. “I’m grieving! I am _still_ grieving. I don’t have to move on yet. The priests said so. I have to heal at my own pace!”

“Not like this, Deb,” Marcurio insisted, shaking his head and tying the sack closed. “You need to give Yrsarald another funeral. You need to be there. And this,” he gestured to the sack, “is what we will burn.”

I stared at my friend, shocked. “But—“

“You know I’m right.” Marcurio stared me down. “You need to say goodbye.”

I clenched my fists and breathed hard, but in the end, I was too damn tired to fight. My arms fell limp to my sides, and I stared at the sack. “Where?”

 

Marcurio was the one to cast the fire spell, insisting to do so. The uniform was the only thing he burned, of course, as it wasn’t books and journals and letters or sketches that I had been using to maintain a fantasy.

The funeral took place to the east of the city, away from anyone’s gaze. Bird sang a nice song, Marcurio said a prayer to Arkay, and Flavia wailed the entire time. Me, I was a rock, right up until Marcurio asked that Yrsarald’s soul be welcomed into Aetherius.

The word “Oblivion” bounced within my mind, the truth tearing my heart in two, and I keeled over with the pain.

I would never see him again. I knew this. Yrsarald had known this. We had never talked about the certainties or the what ifs. We had never learned what would become of my soul upon death. All I knew was that Yrsarald had wanted to be burned, and he was not. His body had been embalmed just as Ulfric’s had been, and placed in the Hall of the Dead in Windhelm. A royal burial. One day, I would go to Windhelm, and demand that his corpse be burned.

I shook with each sob.

This wasn’t right. None of this was right. This was not my life; this was not my future.

I choked for air. I screamed. I wailed. I cried out Yrsarald’s name. The pain in my chest brought me to my knees. Arms wrapped around me, doing their best to lend the strength that had been stolen from me.


	48. Arise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m posting this final chapter as a birthday dedication to thesassblr!
> 
> Hat tip to Kira Mackey for Yrsarald’s line in the first scene.
> 
> Stay tuned for the next Torug short story, and possibly one more set of short stories featuring others from this series.
> 
> Part three of the Hero Series is titled “Hero of Light”, and will hopefully be posted sometime in 2016. For now, I have a dissertation to finish, and I’m moving to a new country… again.
> 
> A feels song for the beginning of this chapter: “Undertow” Ane Brun. The end: “Stand By Me” Ki:Theory.
> 
>  **Content Warning:** Massive depression triggers and mentions of self-harm and harm to others below.
> 
> Also, I’m curious to know if anyone caught the hints….

_"I like this place,” I said to Yrsarald. “It is very… calm.”_

_My husband wrapped his arms around me. We stood together in silence as the rising sun illuminated the vast tundra valley that our secret cave overlooked. In the distance, a doe and fawn were drinking from a gentle creek. Not far away, an elk bull emerged from the tree line to forage. A flock of birds, small brown things that resembled finches, fluttered around the nearby brush. I even made out the slow-moving shape of a very distant mammoth herd._

_Yrsarald’s lips smoothed over the curve of my shoulder, bringing my attention back to our tiny, private world. The cries of an infant then stole both of our attentions. We laughed and stepped away from Nature Television, heading toward our son’s makeshift bassinet. Yrsarald picked up the little red-faced cherub and twirled him around, seeing if he was just bored instead of wet or hungry. A few moments after Yrsarald played ‘eagle’ with the boy, Skyrim’s equivalent of ‘airplane’, the baby settled down and giggles and gurgles replaced cries and screams._

_I walked up to my boys and caressed both of their cheeks. My two redheaded boys. I didn’t expect to ever have a ginger child, but I did have natural redhead family members, and Yrsarald had reddish light brown hair, so I wasn’t too surprised at the red-orange peach fuzz that Yrsarald and I gave to our son._

_Yrsarald continued to twirl and tumble the boy through the air, winning more precious baby laughs. “He’s alright, then, I guess?” I asked, laughing._

_My husband smiled and stilled his playing, settling the boy in his large arms – the perfect cradle. Yrsarald gazed down at me then, his expression shifting from playful to serene. “He’s perfect, honeybee.”_

_  
_

My eyes shot open. I was staring at wood, not the stone of a cave, not Yrsarald’s warm cave. I was staring at a damp wood-beam ceiling that covered a damp wood house in a damp, fish-smelling town. Instead of birdsong and a gentle cascade, I was listening to loud fishmongers and barking dogs.

It was that dream again, the one that always disoriented me. That same dream I had dozens of times since Yrsarald’s death.

The happy ending I should have had.

A grotesque, echoing sob burst from my lips. I slammed my right fist down onto the edge of my too-hard single-person mattress. Again. Again. My wrist and hand hurt. Obscenities in English and Norren flowed and finally my lungs stopped working.

The dam broke. Tears streamed down my cheeks unending, wetting the pillow. I screamed sounds and non-words. I screamed his name. I screamed _for_ him. If he was a ghost and could only enter my dreams as Ulfric had entered his, I wanted him to know that he was torturing me. _Torturing_. I screamed orders to him. Come to me. Stop it. Come back. No more. I was likely confusing Yrsarald’s ghost if he was, indeed, a ghost. _Stop it. Stop it. Stop it!_

I wailed and cried until someone was at my side, shaking my shoulders, pressing their fingertips into my flesh. A familiar voice called my name and in the next room I heard a baby crying. Another child’s cries soon followed.

“Deb. Deb. Deb!”

The pain wouldn’t stop. Instead of getting easier to bear as time went on, it got worse. The dream did not help. Each time my subconscious showed me what should have been, a piece of my soul died. A piece of me floated away into Oblivion to be with Yrsarald.

I was unraveling.

Something cold pressed to my forehead as hands held either side of my face. A fourth hand wiped away my ongoing tears.

“Go calm them,” one of the voices said. Two hands left me, and soon after the cries from the next room quieted. My breathing slowed with the help of someone else’s strength pressing against my upper chest. I began to whimper. “That’s it,” the voice said. “Now look at me. Open your eyes.”

Marcurio. Marcurio was always able to calm me down after an event like this, after that dream. He knew a simple but efficient calming spell that acted as magical valium. After he cast it, I felt drowsy, weak and a little dizzy, but no longer in the throes of full-on hysteria.

“Marc,” I vibrated through my clogged sinuses. My nose refused to take in or push out any air. “Marc....”

“I’m here. Bird’s with the children.” His hand held mine.

I closed my eyes again and wiped my cheeks dry with my free hand. As soon as my lungs calmed, I looked at my friend again, and with a shaking voice, pleaded with him. “This has to stop. I cannot dream. No more. I can’t bear more, Marc. I can’t.”

“The sleeping potions should help. I’m sorry, I don’t know what else to do.”

“Marc,” a familiar voice called from the doorway. Bird. He nodded toward himself, signaling Marcurio to come to him. When he did, I thought I heard Bird say something like “schooner” but I knew that couldn’t have been right. Marcurio was angered by the comment, and he just shook his head violently and returned to my side.

“Is he hungry?” I asked Marcurio.

The bronzed, honey-eyed man slowly shook his head. “No, Deb. We have a wetnurse. You’re dry.”

“Oh.” I forgot. I knew that I knew, and that’s what made it worse. “Yeah. Alright.” I pushed myself up to lean against the dank wall.

Marcurio reached up to caress my cheek, and flashed me a warm smile. “Are you hungry?”

_No_. “Yes.”

“Good. Come on outside. It’s beautiful today. The sun will help you feel better.”

I nodded, but looked away from my friend. Marcurio kissed my temple before leaving.

I picked up my new journal, the one I started upon arriving in Riften. Bird’s suggestion. My old ones were full of too-happy memories, and I kept them hidden away in a locked chest. My new journal didn’t have many entries. Mainly, I just stared at blank pages.

I tugged at the place-holder ribbon. _12 Midyear 4E 204. Line, line, line, line, slash. Line, line, line, line, slash._ I picked up my quill and small inkpot and started a new set of five. This daily task, something I always did before breakfast, gave me a goal. A responsibility.

Eleven. My son was eleven days old, today. Thankfully, Marcurio had recorded the actual date he was born, else I would have never known. I lost track of days easily, lately.

I was never able to breastfeed my son. Not once. We knew something was wrong when my breasts didn’t become anywhere near as full as when I was pregnant with and nursing Flavia. This and the overall lack of just about any normal pregnancy symptom was one of the main reasons I didn’t even know I was with child until after I had missed five menstrual cycles and had finally noticed the localized weight gain. After what I had been through, I was completely surprised a fetus survived. I figured some god wanted my son to be born, and to live, but they didn’t care if I could feed him or not. Maybe they wanted it that way, just like with Flavia.

Altanir had known, claiming accidental detection with magic, and had told Marcurio and Bird. They knew even before I did that I was with child. I realized that this was the reason wine, mead, and most potions had been withheld from me. I never told anyone that I had downed the ghost-detection potion while I was pregnant.

Despite everything, the boy had turned out fine.

He was named, just a few days ago. Virald. Virald Yrsaraldsen. I had been prepared to name a girl Isgeror after a legendary hero Yrsarald was fond of, but a boy’s name… I had needed help. Bird and Marcurio had made suggestions, but none of them sounded good to me, or were not special enough. On one of the few days when I was not out of touch with reality and was actually receptive to discussion of names, I had asked Marcurio what the Norren word for ‘a safe place’ was. That was where the child had been conceived, most likely. Yrsarald’s cave. His sanctuary.

When I had decided on the name, I did not consider the fact that saying the words might bring back painful memories of our time there, of the boy’s conception. I should have just named him something random, but duty nagged at me, even when I thought I was too tired to care. Something- _rald_. A family of protectors. Family….

Virald. _Vir-halde_. Sanctuary protector. An homage to happier times. A protector of Yrsarald’s memory.

I wondered if the association would ever stop tearing my heart in two.

When I finally left my closet of a bedroom, I was wearing only my thin, revealing linen nightgown, but I didn’t care. The neighbors knew I was nuts and ignored me, and Marcurio and Bird had already seen me naked often, anyway.

I padded barefoot onto the patio and slumped onto the bench before the outdoor dining table. I stared at the bowl of porridge in front of me.

“Eat with your mouth, Deb,” Marcurio reminded me.

“Yeah, I know,” I replied.

“Just feed her yourself, Marc,” Bird said as he sat down across from me. “Good practice for Flavia.” I shot Bird a stare of doom, but his Dennis Quaid grin prevailed.

Marcurio grabbed my wooden spoon and shoved it down into the porridge. “Eat,” he ordered.

“ _’Kay_ ,” I replied, using the English expression, not really knowing or caring if they understood what I was saying. My fingers landed a tentative grip on the spoon handle and slowly raised a thimble’s worth of porridge to my mouth. The scrap of food was about all I could handle per mouthful.

Marcurio pinched my arm. “You’re getting too thin.”

“Bird’s thinner,” I retorted.

“Bird’s not supposed to be hunting the undead,” Bird replied in the third person.

“Bird should shut his stupid face,” I grumbled as I angrily shoved a tiny spoonful of boiled oats into my mouth as if it was a rebellious act, even if it I was actually obeying orders.

And there it was, that look again. Bird was horrible at hiding it, that “you just gave birth to your dead lover’s child and nothing I ever say is right and I know it” look. Whenever I saw it, I broke down.

Angry, sad. Sad, angry. My emotions didn’t know what to feel. That was the main reason for me sleeping apart from my son. I had to tell Bird and Marcurio about what I was feeling, despite knowing the emotions and thoughts were awful and downright evil. I was self-aware enough to know I was suffering from not only normal bereavement, but I had added onto that a severe case of post-partum depression. I knew it the moment Yrsarald’s son came out of me, screaming at us for removing him from the womb. I wanted the baby to stop. I wanted him to go away. I wanted to go away. I had seriously considered leaving during the night, but I didn’t. I stayed. I stayed for my family.

What was left of it.

I kept my distance. I had to. I was dangerous. My son was a tiny copy of his father. Looking at him hurt. Thinking about him hurt. Knowing that my son was not wanted by his own mother… that _really_ hurt. Turning off my emotions only worked some of the time. The rest, I couldn’t stop crying.

When I was about seven months pregnant, I cut myself. It was mainly an accident, but not completely. The cut wasn’t deep, just a graze along the underside of my left wrist. Deep enough to feel the sting of tiny nerve endings screaming, but not enough to bleed to death.  Bird never asked me to wash the dishes again.

I tried to convince Marcurio and Bird that I didn’t want to die, not really. I couldn’t do that to an unborn child. I couldn’t do that to _Yrsarald’s_ unborn child. I had just wanted to feel something for a change, that day. I needed to feel a physical pain that outdid the pain in my soul, just like when I used to bite my tongue while watching sad movies to stop myself from crying. I didn’t particularly care for the sensation of the knife running across my flesh. It reminded me of Horn Helmet Guy and his sword pressing against my inner thighs, and it just made me angry. I knew I wouldn’t do it again, but that didn’t stop my friends from being overly cautious, from hiding knives and fearing I would one day leap off of the patio and fall the twenty-some feet down onto the dock.

We ate breakfast in silence after my angry outburst. The entire town had turned tranquil, too; even the fishmongers had quieted down. The market was central to the town and usually full of people from dawn until dusk, and the lakeside was usually obnoxiously loud with yelling and the singing of raunchy dockside songs. But not in that moment. For whatever reason, the town was so quiet I could actually hear birdsong.  I could actually hear my own thoughts for a change.

I hated it.

The sun felt good on my skin, though. The weather in Riften was a big change from that of Windhelm and Winterhold, especially in the summer. I was almost tan. Skinny and tan. The baby fat was nonexistent, which was perhaps one of the main reasons my breasts were dry. The worst part about the situation was that I didn’t care. I should have cared.

I was staring at the lake when it happened, when the sky went dark. Quickly, too quickly for it to be a storm, dark grey clouds billowed across what had been just a second ago a cloudless blue canopy.

“What in Oblivion?” Marcurio exclaimed, looking up at the sky.

The sun, low in the eastern sky, was quickly hidden behind fog or smoke or unnatural clouds, and instead of glowing yellow-orange, it was red. A red sun. A blood sun. Soon the orb became a ring of red, spinning slowly like the outer tendrils of a spiral galaxy. Black clouds circled within its center, reminiscent of a black hole.

My jadedness ended when the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and the birds stopped singing. Jolted out of my broken state, I was jumpstarted into survival mode. My mind started racing toward explanations. Eclipse. Explosion. Dying star. Clogged hole in the sky that Magnus tore. Aliens. The Devil. God. Gods. Daedra Lords. Mass hallucination.

A splash from the lake drew my attention away from the sky. A silhouette emerged from the water onto the nearest shore, and then another, and another.

“Marc, Bird,” I droned, my tone flattened by something between detachment and fear, “there are people coming out of the lake.”

“What?” Bird asked, standing and turning towards the water only to miss the figures as they disappeared in a blur. He turned back to me, a look of dread on his face.

The wetnurse, Morgana, came outside with my crying son in her arms. “What's happening?”

As if in response, several simultaneous blood-curdling screams tore through the chilled air. I froze momentarily, but then slid out from underneath the table and headed for the house.

“Deb, what is it?” Marcurio asked.

I didn’t answer him. I kept walking. There was no time to waste on explanations.

“Everyone, inside!” I heard Bird shout.

There she was, hanging by her fancy guard on the wall. Dawnbreaker. Meridia’s gift to me. My sword. My salvation. My curse. I gripped the handle and lifted her from the holder. The cool metal welcomed my palm with a familiar tingle. The gem at its center flashed a brilliant white, and with the glow my vision blanched.

_Have you not yet realized what I truly am?  What you are?_   Meridia, stern and steady, spoke in my mind _. They call me the Lady of Infinite Energies. I am Light and I am Dark. I am Life and I am Death. I am Aetherius and Oblivion, of both worlds and yet of neither. I am all that is left of my kin on Nirn. I am its protector._

I gazed with paled sight at my right wrist, just above Dawnbreaker’s hilt. Tendrils of ghostly, silver-white armor had begun to weave up my arm, starting at my fingertips. Glove, gauntlet, sleeve, pauldron. Vicious spikes protruded from the sculpted shining smoke. My knuckles were adorned with spectral claws.

_This armor is bound to you. In time of great need, it will envelope you. Like Dawnbreaker, like you, it is a part of me. It is a part of you._

Weightless chain mail, fauld and tasset.  Glimmering cuisses, greaves and boots. A swirling breastplate. An ethereal helmet further clouded my vision, distracting my eyes with silver sparkles.

_No flesh, no weapon, no magic shall touch you. Undead that dare shall burn. You are my Champion, and you will cleanse my world of abominations!_

I was outside. At some point, I had walked there.

My feet were not my own. My arms were not my own. My mind, however, I still retained, somewhat. I knew exactly where the darting shades were. I knew _what_ they were. I knew who sent them.

“We will bathe this town in my Light,” Meridia said through my lips.

My vision cleared. Dawnbreaker warmed in my palm and I knew the vampires were near. The snarl beside me confirmed it. My grip on the sword tightened, and her gem flashed white in response. Upon Meridia’s command, Dawnbreaker sliced the air in a clean streak, rending head from shoulders. My arm remained outstretched, and I gazed at the black blood that decorated the blade.

More vampires closed in around me, and I smiled.

**END PART TWO**


	49. Appendix - Glossary

Please go to [scrptrx.tumblr.com/norren](http://scrptrx.tumblr.com/norren) to view the complete list of Norren words.


	50. Stay tuned...

  
  
[[source](http://scrptrx.tumblr.com/post/107759431753/perplexingly-commission-for-skyrim-junkie)]


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